Faith Despite The KGB

For those in chains for Christ and for those faithful children of God in Russia who have been tortured to death. Abbreviated and adapted version of the original published 1976 by Stephanus Publishers, Germany Translated by Henry Wagner Names of people and places have been changed to protect those still in the Soviet Union. © Hermann Hartfeld All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written consent in writing from the publisher. Manufactured in the United States of America. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 80-66491 Hartfeld, Hermann, 1942-Faith despite the KGB. Translation of Glaube Trotz KGB. 1. Christians in Russia. 2. Persecution— Russia. I. Title. BR936.H2613 272'.9'0947 80-66491 ISBN 0-915684-74-8

CONTENTS Foreword 1. Freed By Faith; Imprisoned For Faith 2. Pyotr 3. The Choking Web 4. A Silent Cry For Help 5. The Baptism 6. A Shepherd To The Orthodox 7. Prison Camp 8. The Prison Within The Prison 9. New Brothers 10. The Great Physician 11. Tested By The Kgb 12. The Bondage Of Christ's Freedom 13. Encounters With The Leader 14. His Eye Is On The Sparrow 15. To Everything A Season 16. The Lasting Witness 17. Into The Unknown 18. New Camps, New Customs 19. The Burial 20. A Sustaining Vision 21. Exoneration 22. A Faithful Sovereign 23. Diverging Paths 24. The Word Triumphant The Author's Epilogue Appendix A: Alphabetical List Of Persons

FOREWORD We offer our readers in the West this book by Hermann Hartfeld, a young Christian writer who emigrated from the Soviet Union to West Germany a few years ago. Through personal experience, the author is acquainted with the difficulties of being a Christian in the USSR. When he was 20 years old, Hartfeld was arrested for the first time and sentenced to five years imprisonment. What was it that brought this young man to a Soviet prison and concentration camp? Hermann Hartfeld gave his heart to the Lord as a young person. An active Christian, he worked among the young people of the Evangelical Baptist churches in Central Asia. Young people comprise half the fellowship of the Evangelical Baptist churches. Thus it is understandable why the KGB puts a lot of effort into its battle against this particular group of Christians, who are so active, young and outgoing. Atheism fears the living and dynamic faith of Christian young people zealously engaged in spreading the teachings of Jesus Christ among all the peoples of the Soviet Union. Hermann Hartfeld is one of many young Christians imprisoned for uncompromising service to the Lord. In the early 1960s Hartfeld was sentenced to five years imprisonment, serving two years and seven months in one of the most oppressive types of concentration camps, the uranium mines. Hartfeld, a Baptist, of course was not the only person who suffered imprisonment for faithfulness to Christ. There were believers of other denominations with him in the concentration camp. In this book the author records how, even in concentration camps, Christianity resists atheism and how, in spite of all KGB plots, believers continue to trust God and proclaim the teachings of Jesus Christ. In recent years, many books about Soviet prisons and

concentration camps have been appearing in the West. These books describe the arduous conditions, the prisoners' vulnerability before the guards, and many other facets of prison life, which is filled with unbelievable hardness and deprivation. However, it is valuable for the readers in the West to know how a Christian feels when he has been imprisoned for actively preaching the gospel. Do they break his spirit? Could he in prison experience a period of deep disappointment as he evaluates his past Christian activity? What does he think about? How does he survive all the testing of incarceration? And, most important, what is he like when he is finally released: empty and broken? Or does he emerge with strengthened faith and revived eagerness to witness about Jesus Christ? In this book you will hear the voice of a young Christian who did not end up in prison by chance. He was carrying out well-defined Christian tasks in an atheistic country, fully aware that he might some day pay for these activities with imprisonment or even his life! Upon release from camp, Hartfeld continued the ministry which God had given him among young people. Less than a year had passed when he again was arrested for Christian activities and sentenced to four years imprisonment. In total he spent about seven years in Soviet prisons and camps—and one of the persons in this book is Hermann Hartfeld. Faith in spite of the KGB is not a broken faith! It is a faith that overcomes the KGB! It is a faith that confirms the great teaching of our Lord Jesus Christ! For many decades the KGB has been carrying on an unlawful battle against the Christians in the Soviet Union. Unfortunately, people in the West do not have a clear understanding of exactly what the KGB is. It is not simply a secret police force concerned with problems of government security. The KGB is an organ which strives to take into its own hands not only the control, but also the direction, of the entire country, overseeing all areas of life, including ideology. The KGB

even tries to dictate the administration of Christian churches: Orthodox, Adventist, Baptist, Lutheran, Catholic, and others. To do this the KGB attempts to recruit ministers of the church, pressuring them from all sides. Unfortunately, there are sad cases where individual ministers have become involved in such contact with the KGB. They not only give information regarding the life of believers and the church, but allow the KGB to direct church affairs. The church is experiencing innumberable misfortunes on this account. Under no conditions does the KGB want children and young people to join the church, and by manipulating cooperative ministers, the KGB attempts to corrupt the church from within. This strategy began in the 1930s. At that time, most ministers refused to collaborate with the KGB. Consequently thousands lost their freedom, while many lost their lives. One of those was the president of the Baptist Union, Nikolai Vasilievich Odinzov, who died in a Soviet concentration camp. In recent years the KGB's attempts to recruit church ministers have intensified. Those who refuse to cooperate in this destructive work are subjected to all kinds of repression, including prison and concentration camps. Occasionally official delegations representing the church in the USSR come to the West and deliver original speeches that promote the ideas of communism. They even talk boldly about great religious freedom in the USSR! So the question arises: for what purpose did these people come? And who put them up to it? Faith Despite the KGB could be the motto of Christianity in the Soviet Union today. It is the symbol that the Church is not surrendering, that Christianity is not breaking, even though the authority in the country is atheistic. And the fact that Christians today are being thrown into prisons and camps proves that atheism, when limited to ideological methods, is weak and powerless to battle Christianity. Atheism is forced to resort to coarse physical strength. Just the same, victory is Christ's!

The Lord said: "I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it!" (Matt. 16:18). April, 1980 Georgi R Vins Secretary Abroad for the Council of Evangelical Baptist Churches of the Soviet Union 300 East Jackson Blvd. Elkhart, IN 46514

PROLOGUE He fought against the pain of battered kidneys and whatever else inside him was broken. He spat out blood. His body convulsed with shudders. His face contorted in a grimace of pain. But he made no sound. "Will you tell us now who beat you up?" He shook his head. The KGB man got up and left the room, the guard close behind him. The beaten man's eyes followed them out of the room. And he smiled. The prison trustee on duty could not understand that smile and asked, "Old man, what makes you so joyful?" "Tell him," said the old man, his features distorted by pain, "that I love him...." "Whom?" The old man remained silent for a time. Then he forced out the words, "Tell him that Jesus, too, loved him unto death. Tell my..." he spat more blood into the bucket, "... my beloved Russia that I loved it more than my own life, and...." His voice faded out, but he managed to say, "Jesus loves this country more than its own sons love it.... " His eyes closed. The battered body lay motionless. Another prisoner ran into the infirmary screaming, "Father! Don't die!" The man's desperate cries made the trustee hide in a corner. The sobbing prisoner threw himself on the cot, his head on the old man's chest. "Don't die! I made you die! Don't die, father! Father, forgive!" Slowly, unwillingly, the old man opened his eyes again. He raised his right hand, and laid it on the prisoner's shorn head. "Don't cry,..." he whispered. "I love you... and Russia. Take my place... I want to go home...." The hand slid down from the young man's head; the eyelids

closed. But the loving smile remained on the face. "Father—don't die!" the prisoner cried out, pleading desperately. But he couldn't hear a heartbeat. He got up and ran from the infirmary straight to the camp headquarters. The other prisoners' eyes followed him in amazement. *** Judge: "Why did you beat up Ramin so terribly?" The guilty one: "He was a wonderful Christian. In his twenty years of imprisonment here, he became like a father to many people. He knew how to comfort each of us and how to give us real hope for the future. Even I—a murderer—learned to love this man very much. But I received a letter telling me that my girl had become a believer and that her parents were going to forbid her to continue corresponding with me. When I read that, I went crazy. Just that moment, Ramin—with that friendly smile of his—came over to me. I don't know why I hit him. I guess it was because it seemed to me in that instant that all Christians were fakers and liars. Then they pulled me off Ramin and took him to the infirmary. I went and lay down on my cot and pulled the covers over my head. "Then the jail official lined up the prisoners in order to find out who had beaten Ramin. But nobody dared to tell him that it was me, even the camp's informers. "The next day, a former prisoner named Bannikov, who had been freed just as I was being interrogated, sneaked in a letter from my girl, which said: 'Gena, I've become a Christian and I'm praying that you'll come to believe in Him too, so that when you get out, we can serve Him together. I'll wait for you all the fifteen years you must be in prison.' "At that point I became frightened because I had beaten the old man so badly, and I ran over to the infirmary. But he died just after I got there. That first letter had been a fake, made up by the KGB."

The judge cut him off: "No attacks on the officials!" They didn't even resort to a show trial that Sunday morning out there in the prison yard. Curses and screams like "shoot him!" rained down on the murderer. He turned to the rest of the inmates, and he could see faces marked by suffering, but full of forgiveness. So the men's screams ceased. And Gena spoke in the stillness: "Right. I don't really want to live any longer. I have killed the conscience of the camp. I have destroyed the spotless conscience of Russia. I've earned the death penalty. And I want to go home, too, to where he is." *** It hurt a lot to look over the camp one last time. To see the smiling face of this murderer who had lately become a Christian, and who looked down at me from the roof of one of the barracks. But I turned away and walked the few steps to a car, where friends were waiting for me. My sister said, seemingly without believing it, "Aren't you happy that you're free?" "What do you mean—free?" She could not understand my feelings. Don't cry. l love you... Russia, too. I heard those words again. And also: 1 have destroyed the spotless conscience of Russia. "Please do me a favor, Oleg," I said to the driver. "Could we drive around the camp one last time?" We drove very slowly. Up there in the watchtowers at the corners of the camp were fresh-faced young soldiers, each one fully convinced that he was "protecting the fatherland from its enemies." So what does "freedom" mean? Gena, the killer, was free, completely free. No jailer could touch his newfound freedom in Christ, not even a Soviet jailer.

LEADING CHARACTERS IN ORDER OF FIRST MENTION Sil, Lena – young woman believer whose husband (without her knowledge) worked as a KGB agent infiltrating evangelical congregations. Igor – husband of Lena Sil. Stolyarov – leader of the Zion communal congregation, imprisoned for his faith. Pyotr – 20 year old Baptist youth, the central character, imprisoned for his faith. Trofim and Kostya – brethren from Pyotr's Baptist congregation, arrested shortly after Pyotr and tried with him. Lapin, Vanya – the elderly leader of a Reformed Adventist congregation in Kasachstan with many years in slave labor prison camps. Lukach – member of Lapin's congregation; bookkeeper for the local collective farm; blackmailed into spying for KGB. Leonid – spokesman for a group of young people in a registered Baptist church. Pankratov – conducted a secret baptism service for Leonid's young people. Proshin, Alyosha (Alyoshka, Alyoshenka, Alexey) - Orthodox priest released after thirty years in prison; dedicated to the ministry among believers within the True Orthodox Church. Popov, Dasha – little girl referred to as Proshin's niece, who later became the wife of a Baptist pastor. Toskin, Vasya – Baptist preacher in Tomsk; had been in prison with Proshin. Nikanor – Pentecostal believer, a fellow prisoner of Pyotr, Kostya, and Trofim in their first prison camp. Semyon – deeply committed believer; member of the True Orthodox Church. Victor – young man unjustly imprisoned for ten years for the

alleged murder of a policeman; led to Christ in prison by Pyotr and the other believers. Spiridonov, Captain – deputy chief of prison camp, whose father (the former leader of an Adventist congregation to which Lapin had belonged) had been shot by the KGB. Ivan – former persecutor of a Baptist prayer group; fellow prisoner of Pyotr and the other believers. Traube – Lutheran pastor unjustly accused and sentenced for the rape of his daughter; died in prison camp. Odinzov – Baptist leader killed by dogs at the command of Soviet authorities.

1. FREED BY FAITH; IMPRISONED BY FAITH The secretary of a district committee of the Communist party in a mid-sized city in northern Kasachstan sat talking on the telephone. He told the head of the local KGB that a group of people in his town were behaving in a peculiar fashion. What were they up to? They believed in God. The KGB man at the other end assured the secretary that the department was already on the case, and that its findings would be released to the district committee shortly. *** The parents of Lena Sil had belonged to a Pentecostal communal congregation. When Lena was twelve, her parents were arrested, so Lena was sent to a children's home. She cried for a long time because she missed her parents. A nice young man unobtrusively introduced himself into her life. He told her that he had been a friend of her father. She was happy to see him every time he came. And from the day he came into her life, the teachers at the home and in school were most accommodating to him! The young man easily won the heart of this young girl. When he stayed away for a month or two, she yearned for him even more than she did for her parents. When she became sixteen, she was informed of the death of her parents. A wave of dark memories rolled over her. She locked herself in her room and cried, her face buried in the pillow. At that moment the door opened quietly. It was Igor. He gently took her by the shoulders and let her head rest on his chest. How did he get into the room? The thought that he must have been sent to her by God quieted her.

Now Igor began to visit her more often. He brought her exciting books from the KGB library about the vital work of the watchful men of the Tscheka, the state security forces of the KGB. She read the books voraciously, sometimes not even stopping to sleep. She also joined the Communist youth organization, the Komsomol. When Lena became eighteen, Igor discovered that the clumsy teenager had turned into an attractive young woman. This discovery led to a proposal of marriage, which Lena accepted. She could no longer imagine life without Igor. After the wedding Lena found out that Igor had been married before and divorced. She easily forgave him this earlier life. After a while she learned that he had a kind of cover-up job as a mechanic in a factory. Of course, she was never able to find out what he actually did. What did it matter—she was so happy with him! There was no lack of money. When a baby came Lena gave herself completely to the care of the child. After a time Igor was transferred to another city. The transfer had something to do with his work. Lena asked no questions. He did what he had to do—why should she object? They lived in a little house on the outskirts of the city and became well acclimated to their new surroundings. Igor had the habit of taking a walk before going to sleep. Lena usually went along after she had taken care of their little son. One evening as they strolled along they heard singing. Lena stopped and listened. She drew Igor closer to the little house where a Christian song was being sung. Igor looked at her intently and said, "There are believers in this house." "Oh? How beautifully she sings," said Lena pensively. "You pass by here every day when you're getting water from the pump," said Igor on the way home. "Why don't you get acquainted with that girl? She goes to the ninth grade." "How did you know all that?" she asked.

He laughed and said, "We men are very inquisitive when it comes to women." That night Lena turned from side to side, unable to sleep. In her mind she reviewed her long-forgotten childhood. In those days her mother had sung such beautiful hymns in the evening when they were waiting for her father to return from work. The KGB had come to get Lena's father one night. They had picked up her mother the next morning. When the screaming child had clung to her mother, not wanting to let her go, her mother had said a prayer: "Father, into Your hands I place her." That was all the goodbyes her mother had said before being pushed into a "Black Maria." The steel doors slammed shut behind her. Lena knew nothing more of what had become of her. In the meantime Lena's guardians had made her forget her religious beliefs. She didn't even think about God anymore. She lay awake until the first sounds of the morning. Finally she fell asleep on her husband's shoulder. The next day while she was filling her water bucket she noticed that someone was opening the door of the house where she had heard the singing the night before. A young girl with a bucket came out. Was she the one who had sung so beautifully? Lena smiled at the girl. "Last night while we were walking by here—my husband and I go walking no matter what the weather is like—we heard a melody coming from your house. It reminded me of something in my past. You must be a believer," Lena said. "Yes," said the girl, and looked at Lena keenly. "What's your name?" asked Lena. "Ira." "Ira. Irina. What a pretty name!" Lena responded. "My name is Lena. How nice that you believe in God." Then she added sadly, "My parents were believers, too. That melody reminded me of my mother. She sang that hymn too. My parents belonged to a Pentecostal congregation. They were arrested and died in prison." Lena's bucket overflowed. Ira moved it over and put her own

bucket under the spigot. "We're evangelical people, too. We belong to a Zion community," Ira answered. "I'm home alone right now. My schoolmates are doing harvest duty in the country. I was excused because I was sick, and I'll probably stay home for another two weeks at least. Why don't you come by some time?" Lena thought about the invitation and then promised to come over. *** A few days later Lena ran into her new friend at the store. On their way home from shopping Lena questioned Ira about her school, about her parents, about the believers. She spoke freely about herself, indicating that she was a member of the Komsomol, although she was indifferent to its politics. She didn't know whether there was a God, but the Christian melodies were certainly dear to her. That is how they reached the house of Ira's parents. Since her parents hadn't yet left for their work on the late shift, the young girl introduced Lena to them. Lena's eyes were drawn to the inscription on the wall: "God is Love." Ira sang a psalm for Lena, who listened raptly. *** "What's new?" Igor asked that evening. "How is the little mother. How's the little boy—healthy and happy?" "Everything's fine, darling. The little mother is happy, and the little boy is growing up fast. And, you know, Igor, I was at Ira's today!" she confided. "She sang so beautifully that I couldn't help crying." "You shouldn't be crying! Tell me what your new friends are like," Igor said. "They're interesting folk," Lena related. "They seem to get

along well with each other. The house is clean and cozy. Her parents were at home. They remind me of my own parents. And they invited me to their meeting. Do you think I should go?" "Of course you should go. But please don't even think about your parents. That won't bring them back to life. I'd much rather see you happy and full of life," he said gently, stroking Lena's long, wavy, black hair. *** A month passed. In the local KGB headquarters, two important officials were talking together. "I'm afraid that my wife went too far. She has become a convert and enjoys the complete trust of these believers. Needless to say, she has no suspicion whatever about what I do. And she tells me everything. But her reaching out for this religion bothers me. She's even begun to pray. If things go on like this, she'll soon be teaching our son how to pray!" "You have nothing to worry about, lieutenant. You've completed your assignment perfectly, and now it's time to transfer you to the south. One of those Pentecostal congregations has begun to make trouble down there. Your wife can do us a great service without ever knowing what she's doing. With her sincere interest in religion, she'll win the confidence of those believers. They'll certainly trust her. And after your wife has become a member of that group, you can try to discredit the congregation's leader." "How do I do that?" asked Igor. "You'll begin by making your wife believe that you might like to become a Christian yourself. And, being very careful, you'll drop a hint that the congregation's leader has been talking with KGB people and that you are convinced the man is turning in his brother Christians. Those Christians won't tolerate traitors or collaborators. They throw them right out. And that's how we'll turn you into a powerful force within the congregation after a

while. How would you like to be the leader of one of those groups?" his boss sneered. Igor sat there, his head down. "Cheer up, Igor! You know your job. Now get ready for your transfer. You'll be in the new place in a week, together with your family. Good luck!" The boss shook the lieutenant's hand and dismissed him. *** Ira accompanied Lena and the child to the station. When she returned to her home, Ira saw several uniformed police and people in civilian clothes outside. She bit her lips until they hurt. "We want in," a policeman said. "It's all right with me," said Ira. Her voice was tense as she opened the door. The men entered. She headed straight for her room, reaching for her guitar almost automatically. She began to strum. The intruders said to her, "Citizen, be advised of the prosecutor's order to search this house." "Excuse me, but I'm not the head of this house. My parents are at work and I cannot permit a search in their absence," Ira said, the guitar still in her hand. The officers in civilian clothes talked about this with the uniformed police officers. Then they all walked outside into the courtyard, leaving one policeman behind in the kitchen. Ira suddenly realized that she must warn the neighbors whose duty it was to prepare the community's evening meal. Cautiously she pulled her door shut and opened the window which looked out over the garden. The policemen were standing around in the yard on the other side of the house. She jumped down, carefully pulling the window shut behind her, and ran over to the home of the neighbors, the Stolyarovs. Thank God, the police had not been there yet. These neighbors began to hide all those things the officials

might want to confiscate. The entire community had only one Bible, which they succeeded in hiding. Ira ran across all the backyards and warned all the others about the raid. "That's done!" Ira threw herself into a chair in the Stolyarovs' house, exhausted. Now she could think about what to do. It seemed to her that she hadn't forgotten a single detail. "Thank you, dear Lord!" she whispered. And after she closed her eyes for a while and rested, she went to look for her neighbor, Tima Stolyarov, a sixth grader. On her way, Ira ran straight into the arms of Tima's father, who was followed by a policeman. *** Stolyarov was arrested. The KGB questioned him. "Stolyarov, we know that your group lives as a community. Is that correct?" "Yes." "You all eat together, right? I mean, there are members of your congregation whose job it is to prepare the meals? These people do the food-shopping for all the believers, right? And all of you eat at one long table in one of these houses, right?" "Right." "Tell me the names of the people who do this work." "I can't do that." "What? What do you mean?" "I am the leader of this congregation," explained Stolyarov. "I alone am responsible for the actions of my people." "But you people preach that every member of the congregation is responsible for his own destiny. How can you reconcile that belief with the idea of your being responsible for all?" the prosecuting judge continued. "You are right. But Christ bears this responsibility before God. You people have authority on earth. But every man, including you, is accountable to a higher authority—to God—for what good or evil he does in the world. In my case, as leader, this

responsibility applies to me personally as well as to the congregation which God has entrusted to me." "All this talk means you won't give us the names of the people in charge of meal preparation?" "No. I will not inform on those of my brothers and sisters who are serving God and doing His work. I will not divulge their names. In fact, all members of the congregation are doing the Lord's work in one way or another, day and night," said Stolyarov, showing his Christian love clearly. "Good. Tell me: do you people raise your children in the faith?" "We teach them to believe in God." "You believers work together on one construction job, don't you? But we have learned that you never work on Saturdays or Sundays. Why is that?" "To work on those days would go against our consciences. Sunday is a day of rest for everybody. And Saturdays are reserved for work for the kingdom of God." "Incidentally, you have women who tend to the clothing of all the believers?" Stolyarov nodded. "What are their names?" asked the prosecuting judge. "Oh no. You have evil intentions toward these good souls. I won't answer such questions," Stolyarov answered firmly. "Tell me now, Stolyarov, you have certain responsibilities toward higher authorities, am I correct?" "Certainly." "What are they?" "We give unto Caesar what is Caesar's. We do an honest day's work and participate in the building up of socialism. We do not violate the public order of things. And we do not drink." The examining judge grinned. "That's all we'd neecl—you believers getting drunk and smoking and running after women! Then we wouldn't have anything more to do. But let's get back to the children. Why aren't they in the Communist Pioneers?" "They just don't want to join. After all, it's a voluntary group, you know. Nobody can force them to join, can they?" answered

Stolyarov. "That old thief is smart, isn't he!" The words came from another Tscheka member who was hidden in a dark corner of the room. Abruptly this man joined the questioning. "And why don't you vote, like everybody else?" "Because the government has announced its intention to eradicate us believers. Why should I elect my own executioners?" "All right, all right. That's enough for today!" said the weary examining judge. "There's just one thing I don't understand. In the past you spent time in jail. And you still didn't learn a thing. This time around, you might not come out of it alive." "Me—learned? I've learned one thing. It is clear to me that as long as you suppress believers, you will be committing slow suicide. As for us—let me ask you: you've been dogging our every footstep, checking into every-t hing we do. Has our way of doing things really offended the Communist way of life? You party members have been moving toward what you think is your goal for many years now. And always, this meant walking over dead bodies. During that whole period we've lived together in Christian harmony without anyone uttering even the slightest harsh word against you. And still you're not satisfied! Are you persecuting us because you're just plain envious of us? Then why not change your ways and become part of us? We wouldn't object in the slightest!" With that, Stolyarov looked at the judge with a friendly smile. The judge turned away. But the Tscheka man in the corner became enraged. "What nerve this man has! That's all we need, Stolyarov—a state within a state, one person assuming the sins of the other! You have no desire to join with us in true solidarity and help to build our new Soviet society! This means that you are helping to support the Fascist imperialists and militarists!" "Preaching hatred against all kinds of innocent people as you do doesn't build up," Stolyarov responded. "It destroys! We cannot go along with that. For this reason, we continue to build

up the kingdom of God—not with guns in our hands, but with the Holy Bible. And we do it even though you atheists have for years tried systematically to destroy our family." The judge asked, "Hmmm... do you seriously intend to sabotage our policy of peaceful watchfulness against the imperialists?" "The same thing might happen to you as happened to Saul on the way to Damascus, when he was confronted by the risen Christ! It will be hard on you, you godless ones, to resist His power. So you might still see what it is to be allowed, through God's mercy, to help build His kingdom. I see a good future for you—in Christ." Stolyarov was really going strong now. "The future doesn't look too good for you Christians," came the retort from the dark. "We have heard that your congregation regularly eats supper together and that you carry on religious meetings right at the dining table." "You heard correctly." "Who's in charge of the worship service? We hear that everyone takes a turn leading the congregation." "That's what you heard. But the Bible says that you should not listen to every rumor." "Exactly. That's what we're going to clear up right now," interrupted the examining judge. "You could disguise yourselves and visit our worship service. Then you would discover the answer to what you've been trying to find out. Or have you already sent a spy to our services, so that you have been informed of everything that has happened?" The judge threw a black look at the prisoner. Meanwhile Stolyarov began to think: Have they actually put a spy into our congregation to inform them of everything that goes on? Well, it couldn't have been Lena. But what about her husband? He's never come to our regular worship services. At any rate, God will make it all crystal clear in His own good time. That thought helped Stolyarov to feel more relaxed.

The examining judge interrupted his thoughts. "You know very well, Stolyarov, that we could let you go now and start a rumor to the effect that you've been collaborating with us. Soon all your friends would avoid you! We could plant stories in the paper which state that you did evil things to members of the congregation—that you raped your young women members, for example! We could also put you under protective custody. Or we could accuse you of manufacturing anti-Soviet propaganda. Or prosecute you for theft or bribery involving Socialist property. In other words, we could easily make you look bad in front of all of society. Not only Soviet society, but also in front of that western bunch of fools. As you know, truth is always on the side of the stronger. So why don't you work with us instead of against us? It will benefit both of us. If you do, we'll leave you alone. There are, one could say, intelligent Christians in our country. They are well organized and they obey the laws. They are free to worship together, and we don't bother them. Why don't you accept my offer? Then we'll let you go free immediately" "I can't make compromises with pagans. Never." Stolyarov spoke softly but his voice penetrated. "It would be better to die; it would be better to suffer all sorts of denunciations; it would be better to go through the world's torture which is only temporary. But as for me, I can only work hand in hand with my Lord, with Jesus Christ. The people of Soviet Russia became accustomed long ago to your accusations against us. Slowly they are beginning to see through your methods. Soon everybody will know that you are lying. It reminds me of how the apostle Paul defended himself against his accusers; in blind fury they cried indignantly, tore their clothes and threw dust into the air. But the dust fell right back onto the accusers, not on Paul, who was actually way above them." "All right, Stolyarov. Go back to your cell. We'll make up our minds about what we're going to do with you." "How far did you get in school?" asked the Tscheka man, still dogged in his pursuit.

"Fourth grade in elementary school," answered Stolyarov. "That's nonsense! Nobody will believe that," growled the Tscheka man. At last a prison guard came and led Stolyarov into the inner cellblock of the KGB prison. Stolyarov had hardly entered the cell when the heavy, steelcovered door slammed shut behind him. The first thing Stolyarov did was to kneel down to thank God for His aid during the interrogation. He also prayed for his family and friends. Then he rose and inspected his cell. It contained a wooden cot for one man. On the cot were a kapok mattress, a pillow, and a cotton blanket. In the corner stood a small cabinet with a teakettle on the top. There was a window high up on the wall—too high for the prisoner to reach. Not a bad place to live, Stolyarov thought. He went through the list of answers his captors had tried to get from him during the interrogation. He sat down on the cot and lowered his head. "Lord," he prayed, "You have told us that we need not worry about what we are to say when we are brought before the powers of earth. If I told these men too much, please forgive me and have mercy on me. But if I have acted well, then to You, Lord, goes all the glory which can come from my imprisonment. Neither the congregation nor I should receive any honor from it; all honor and approbation go to You. But give me the strength to be true to You until death." Suddenly he heard the crying of a baby. Stolyarov looked upward toward the window. How could there be any children here? he asked himself, stepping closer to the window. The weeping seemed to come from inside the wall or from behind the wall. But that was impossible! The wall was a yard thick! He walked over to the radiator and tapped on it. No response. But it was impossible that no other human beings should be in the cellblock! He banged on the radiator again. Still no reply. He looked up at the tiny window above. It was getting dark outside. He could see a tiny sliver of sky, a star blinking in the distance. Stolyarov sighed.

Then the weeping began again, even louder. That's what his little Tima sounded like. He banged on the radiator again, then on the pipe leading to it. No sound. Ah—yes! he concluded. Everybody must be outside, exercising. It should be about time for exercise. He sat down on the cot, and the crying began again: "Waaaa... Waaaa...." Somewhere, a small child is crying. But how did it get in lure? Or am I just hearing things? Am I hallucinating? He touched his forehead with his hand. No, he was perfectly healthy. "Waaaa... Kwanzaa,..." the baby's voice broke in. Stolyarov jumped up. He started pacing back and forth. "Waaaa... Kwanzaa...." He sank to his knees and prayed for a long time. "Waaaa... Kwanzaa,..." the weeping rang through the evening's stillness. Then, suddenly: "Don't be afraid, my son! Be calm! Soon you will understand everything." Stolyarov began to shiver. Where did this clear voice come from? Perhaps he was hallucinating after all! He rose. No, the crying persisted: "Waaa... Kwanzaa...." He went back to the radiator and tapped it again. An answering signal came at once. So he began the message: "This is Stolyarov. Imprisoned believer. Who are you?" The reply: "Name 'Ensign.' My case being revived. The troubles in Temir-Tau. What is happening?" "Can you hear a child crying?" "Hear nothing. Don't be disturbed! Tricks to drive you mad, to declare you schizophrenic. Put you in an institution. Don't give up; your God will help you...." The signal broke off. Stolyarov tried to resume communications but got no more replies. He could hear only the mysterious baby. And then the gruff voice: "What are you doing with that radiator?" Stolyarov whirled around. He could see the guard's angry

face peeking through a hole in the door. The crying had stopped. "You want to go to solitary?" Stolyarov almost said that they ought to stop the baby-crying record, but he had just been warned. He stepped closer to the door and said to the guard, "Would you be so kind as to inform the examining judge that I will be fasting for twenty days, and that I will eat or drink nothing except for one glass of hot water every three days." "What have you decided to do, you old bum? Something like a hunger strike?" "I said nothing about a hunger strike. I am simply fasting for twenty days." The guard closed the peephole and left. Stolyarov knelt to say his intercessory prayers. He lifted up his family, the congregation and his persecutors before the Lord. Only at midnight did he finally lie down to sleep. He had a peaceful night. No nightmares. Nothing awoke him until six in the morning. He rose, got dressed and immediately turned to his prayers. At seven he was ready for his morning walk. The same guard who had been on duty the night before unlocked the door and led Stolyarov into the hallway. Turn right, then go straight ahead," he whispered. In I he hallways the guards gave orders quietly, so that they could not be heard in the cells. That way, no one knew whether a man was going for a walk or to the bathroom or to be interrogated. To further preserve secrecy the halls were thickly carpeted. Once in the washroom, Stolyarov washed himself in the cold water. While he was buttoning his shirt, he accidentally noticed some tiny, almost invisible scratches on the wall above the sink. He moved closer and was able to make out tiny letters: "Been tr —ferred other c-11," and below, "-nsi-n." Stolyarov decided that Ensign had been moved to another cell because of the radiator conversation. It's fortunate that he didn't get solitary for it, thought Stolyarov.

"Let go, let's go!" warned the guard outside. Stolyarov was led back to his cell. He was again deep in prayer when the head of the investigative unit of the jail was making his rounds. He waited by the door. Stolyarov had not noticed his arrival and was unaware of the official's presence until he rose from his knees. "Your name?" the official demanded. Stolyarov told him his name. "You certainly prayed long enough, Stolyarov. I've been standing around for a half hour waiting for you to get through with your conversation with that God of yours. Have I been informed correctly that you have declared a twenty-day hunger strike?" "No, citizen natchalnik. " I did not declare a hunger strike. I am fasting." "I was told that you are definitely on a hunger strike. What complaints do you have against the administration of this jail?" The official, like his colleagues, changed back and forth between the familiar, contemptuous form of address and the more respectful formal usage, apparently without being aware of the difference. "I have no complaints, citizen natchalnik," was Stolyarov's terse response. "I thank you for your concerns about me, for the roof over my head...." The official stared at him incredulously. "You are satisfied to be here?" "Oh yes. For example, in my house we never had carpets like the ones here. You treat us prisoners magnificently." The official, shivering in the cold, humid cell with its dripping walls, turned around and left the cell. As soon as he was once more alone, Stolyarov went over to the radiator and began to tap again. "Here Stolyarov. Believe in God; therefore arrested. And you?" The answer: "Bekov, journalist. Arrested over some gold bars in Iran. Investigation going on. You not get sentence because of God. You in jail because of politics?"

"No, because of God. Didn't register with authorities. They want me to collaborate. "Testify or you'll rot here!" "No. I love God...." "Pray for me,..." Stolyarov heard. Then he saw that the guard was shaking his fist through the hole in the door. So Stolyarov lay down on the cot and closed his eyes. He began to think about Lena. She had become like his own daughter to him—and now had come the sudden breaking away from her. Where might she be? Would she write to her friend Ira? He hoped so. At any rate, the Lord knew everything. And Stolyarov could certainly pray for Lena and her family. *** Stolyarov was not interrogated again. In his three months of detention, he was given cat-meows, dog-barks, and girls' coarse screams to listen to, along with t he repeated cries of that baby. But nothing could sway him. In fact, he felt stronger spiritually after he finished his long fast. He had lost surprisingly little weight, and the guards seemed to respect him. Stolyarov's trial in the people's court took place behind closed doors. The authorities did not want to make the public aware of the existence of a congregation of believers in their midst. An appeals court reduced the length of the people's court sentence to three years. They knew that three years would be long enough to test the strength of any man's convictions. After the verdict was announced by the court, Stolyarov was taken to the city jail to await transfer to the prison camp.

2. PYOTR Pyotr had reached the ripe old age of twenty and was already weary of the silliness and contrariness of life. It was not easy for a young man like this to get himself ready to go to the prosecutor's office in his home city of Kasachstan at nine in the morning, knowing full well that he would not be returning home to his family very soon. On that November morning Pyotr had no desire whatever to get up. But when his landlady told him through the door that his girlfriend had arrived to pick him up, he jumped up and pulled on his clothes. It was 8:15; there was no time for breakfast. They had to hurry. After all, they were not going to a youth meeting. They were headed for the prosecutor's. The two hardly spoke on the way. Why should they? Everything was clear. There was no need for talking. They walked into the building and found that nobody was around as yet. Pyotr began to feel sad, uncontrollably miserable. He blew his nose and pulled himself together for Marina's sake. Finally the prosecutor arrived, followed by his secretary. The prosecutor greeted Pyotr and Marina politely. The secretary gave a foolish grin. Finally the examining judge came in. Unfortunately, it wasn't the one who had been working on the believers' case. But after a while Pyotr was called into this official's office. Pyotr squeezed Marina's hand and walked off, praying silently. "Your examining judge is not in today. I have the duty to inform you of the order for your detention, issued by the city prosecutor's office." The official began to read the order. Pyotr did not bother to listen. He had expected it all, yet he was not really prepared to hear it. Would he be able to give Marina a message to take back to his friends? And to his mother—she did not even know he was

going to be arrested. "Citizen," Pyotr heard, "sign this to indicate that you have been advised of the prosecutor's decision." Pyotr roused from his thoughts and said, "Excuse me, but there is no point whatever to my signing this paper. I know perfectly well that I am under arrest. It won't change anything for me to sign this." After the formalities were over, a light-headed feeling came over him, and he asked, "Will you let me talk to the girl who is waiting outside?" "You are not permitted to go outside anymore. But we will allow her to come in." So it's starting, thought Pyotr. He was under detention at long last. Marina entered. He got up, looking at her intently, and said, "I'm really under arrest." Her eyes lowered, but he smiled and continued: "Tell the people in my house and all my friends where I am and that I send them my best. And write to my mother. Tell her that I'm under arrest." That was all. What else could he say, knowing that an examining judge a few feet away would hear everything and was eagerly waiting for something that might further incriminate Pyotr? Marina left, weeping uncontrollably. A police lieutenant entered, asking the examining judge: "Who am I taking into custody?" "Here, this one," the judge said, pointing at Pyotr. "So that's the Baptist functionary who was written up in the paper?" the lieutenant asked. "It looks as if you prosecutors got pretty well messed up again." "Take him away and go back to your duties!" the judge said angrily. The lieutenant walked off, telling Pyotr to come along. "Hands on the back," he commanded without turning around. Well, I guess they're finished calling me "comrade" now,

Pyotr thought. Me, a citizen of the Soviet Union'. That's what the revolutionary poet Mayakovsky had said. And his life had ended in suicide. Suddenly Pyotr thought: We are citizens of the heavens! That's why the earth despises us so. Those words-" that's why the earth hates us so"-came from a sermon, he thought, feeling good about it. "Why on earth would you be smiling?" the lieutenant said. "Oh, I just remembered what a certain Christian said: namely that the people of the earth despise the people of heaven. Isn't that interesting?" Marina stood in front of the building which housed the prosecutor's offices. Pyotr saw her, waved, and quickly jumped into the "Black Maria." It sped off. At the police precinct they put Pyotr into an empty cell. The glass in the window was broken. It was so cold that his hands became stiff. Yet, despite the "ventilation facilities," stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. Somebody had been in the cell just before Pyotr arrived. Would he remain alone? Pyotr knelt down and talked about his situation with God. "I am troubled, taking the path which You first trod, Jesus. But You know that, and still You are with me," he prayed. When he finished his devotions, he felt good again. Around dusk, they took Pyotr to the municipal detention center. This time there were three men in the cell with him. As he entered, they rose and introduced themselves to him. Their names were Nikita, Volodya and Lyonya. They invited him to sit down on the metal bed in the rear of the cell. His companions turned out to be unusually friendly. They diverted him from his brooding and asked him to join them in their meal. Suddenly he realized that he had not eaten all day. So he gratefully helped himself to a piece of bread with some sausage and some hot water in an aluminum cup. First, he stood up and prayed silently. His cellmates whispered behind his back. "Hey, buddy, you're not one of those believers, are you?"

asked Volodya when Pyotr sat down. "Yes, I am a believer," Pyotr said, continuing to eat. "What are you accused of?" "Making religious propaganda. The Soviet Union forbids all evangelizing," explained Pyotr. "That's strange," Nikita said. "My parents are believers, too, but they've never been in court." "Well, of course they don't go to the trouble of starting legal proceedings against everybody. After all, you can believe in whatever you like in our country. But no one has the right to advertise his belief. There is only one freedom in the Soviet Union: the freedom to proclaim communism! The atheists are trying to tear down that which the prophets talked about for thousands of years: the thousand years of Christ's kingdom. I'll tell you more about that when we have a little more time," said Pyotr, putting the last piece of bread into his mouth. "Why not? Sounds exciting!" said Volodya. "But have you played the accordion yet?" "Sorry, I love music, but I don't play any instrument." They laughed uproariously. Pyotr looked about, wondering what was so funny. Finally Volodya explained: "Around here, to play the accordion means to get your fingerprints taken. Have they taken your fingerprints yet?" "Not yet. But my vocabulary grows richer by the hour." Nikita's attention was taken up by something else. "So you believe in God. But have you ever seen God?" he asked. Pyotr thought about it. Had he ever seen God? No. But he certainly didn't want to be fanatic, a believer who was blind to the realities. So he stretched his mind, trying to come closer to his God. "I've never seen God, but I can tell you how I found God. I mean, how I came to believe in Him; all right?" "All right, begin," said his cellmates. And they started to make themselves comfortable on the prison cot. The conversation lasted until far into the night.

*** They slept, two on each of the narrow prison cots meant for only one man. To avoid falling to the floor, the man on the outside had to embrace the other man. Pyotr's body rested against the wall. He could not sleep a wink. He kept thinking about his mother and sister. He would have been glad to get up and pray, but he did not want to disturb the other man. It was dawn when he finally fell asleep. "Day watch on duty!" he heard from the outside. "Get ready for morning wash-up!" There was milling around everywhere. Unlike the day before, Pyotr jumped down from his cot and knelt for his morning devotions. His bunkmates kept a respectful silence. After breakfast, guards shoved another prisoner into the cell. He bragged about himself: "I stole a mouth organ from the club!" Volodya looked at the newcomer attentively, suspiciously. The new man stretched out his hand to all three. "And you, twerp, what are you in here for?" The new nickname amused Pyotr. "I believe in God...." The others confirmed it. "Yes, he is a Baptist." "In-ter-est-ing," the new arrival said in a nasal voice. "So show me how you people pray to God." "Leave him alone, or you'll hear from us!" threatened Nikita. "Sure, yeah. Certainly. I only meant to show some interest," the new man muttered. "That's not how you show interest. That's how you make fun of people," said Volodya. The rag which covered the hole in the prison door was lifted up. The guard called for Pyotr. There was a package for him. Inside he found a slip of paper with "How is your health?" on it. Pyotr held the message close. What a joy to learn that someone on the outside was thinking of him! Then he unpacked the contents of the box on the tiny table. There wasn't much room in

the entire cell. It was about thirteen feet by three and half feet, and there were five men in it. Without asking permission, the new man broke off a piece of bread, helped himself to a piece of sausage and started to eat. Then he asked Pyotr, "Did you belong to one of these unregistered Baptist groups?" Pyotr nodded. His thoughts were far away. "Did you assemble in private homes?" Pyotr nodded again. Volodya was whispering about something with Nikita and Lyonya. "And who was your congregation's leader?" Pyotr hesitated. The leader's name was no secret, but why did this fellow want to know that? Volodya, Nikita, and Lyonya were quicker than he. "Informer! Parasite! Swine! Rat!" they screamed, and their blows rained down on the new man. Bloody and battered, the informer pounded on the cell door with fists and feet while screaming, "Murder! They're killing me!" The door opened and the informer was pulled out, still being shoved and kicked by the three men. His head hit the wall on the other side. The door slammed shut again. The three prisoners, out of breath, sat down on the cot again. Nikita cursed angrily. Pyotr observed the whole scene as far removed from the others as possible, obviously upset by what had been happening. "Hey, friend. Are you disturbed?" Volodya asked, breathing heavily. Then he smiled: "Don't you know that this was an informer? Don't you know about such men?" Pyotr shook his head. Volodya went on: "Your people prepared you badly for prison! All right, listen. The examining judge puts an informer into a cell when he doesn't have enough evidence for an indictment. Usually, this informer is promised a shorter term in prison, or a reduced charge if he's being indicted for something serious. You see, during the investigation, the examining judge is your God. He can do anything to you he

wants to do. He can accuse any man of any act and make it stick. The court will believe anything he serves up before them. That's what Soviet judges are taught in law school: to make any government indictment stick and, if necessary, to find the required false evidence and witnesses. How else are they going to build their glorious socialism? "Those golden days of yore—when every party member would follow the party right out of the window—are gone forever. And all those factories and buildings the party built? They're built with the flesh and blood of accused and indicted prisoners like you and me! Who's cheaper than you and me? We're ready to break our backs all day long to get our one bowl of watery soup, just so we don't die of hunger! If the system weren't so useful, the state would have to invent fewer 'criminal circles'— which the state itself organized! They pick a few poor drunks up off the street and put them into labor camps for two or three years as coolie laborers. And by the way, who has the monopoly on the sale of the vodka that creates these drunks in the first place? The state! "All right, then; the underhanded people like the one the examining judge stuck in here sit on top of you like a hen on top of an egg, and try to hatch as much information from you as they can. Then they report every little detail to the judge, who constructs the very finest case you can imagine—a case which will allow him to put you away for as long as he wants! And the judge winds up with extra money in his paycheck and a certificate for a job well done, while you waste away your best years at hard labor. After Pyotr heard all this useful information, he yearned greatly for his friends. "Lord," he said to himself, "give us Christians the sense to look for Your kingdom, instead of taking on the ways of the world...." The cell door opened again and Pyotr was afraid that his friends would be put into solitary because of the beating. But the guards had only come to get Pyotr for fingerprinting.

*** The police corporal, a grizzled old Cossack, made the prisoners line up in the hallway of the detention center. Then he said in his broken Russian: "You will come with me. I'm in charge of taking you to the jail. You understand that I am only doing my duty. If this upsets any of you, please forgive." Pyotr was moved by the old man's apology. The Cossack actually turned toward him and said, "Here, son, take this small package." Somebody had succeeded in bringing him some food for lunch. But Pyotr knew that he would only be able to receive packages here. Afterwards, no more. The municipal jail. It was the first time Pyotr had seen one of these places from the inside. He was interested in everything: the curved ceiling of the passageway, the steady dripping from the ceiling, the hardbitten faces of the guards. Quarantine cell Number 50. No cots. The prisoners must either squat or lie on the floor. Pyotr stood searching around in the semi-darkness for a place to sit. Everywhere, there was filth. In the lefthand corner, next to the door, sat a Cossack, loudly telling a story until he spotted Pyotr. "Hello, son!" he called out to him as if he were a long-lost friend. "Come over, come over!" Pyotr walked over to the spot which was offered to him and sat on the floor. "What did you do to get put in here?" the old man queried. "I believe in God," Pyotr explained. "Aha," the Cossack said. "Me in jail with God-believer before. Good people, very good. Government has killed many, many God-believers. My name is Sayranov." Pyotr gave him his first name, which seemed satisfactory to Sayranov. He trumpeted: "Me, I like jail. Me stole sheep? Sure,

yes indeed! And I love jail!" The days passed, one less cheerful than the one before. Sometimes Pyotr received the impression that time was standing still. The normal thing was for the prisoners to think up all kinds of time-passing activities. They played cards which were cleverly made from old newspaper pages. Because the stakes were sometimes high— leading to murder and every other kind of violence— card playing was strictly forbidden in jail. Anyone caught playing cards got at least fifteen days in solitary. Since Pyotr did not participate, this activity did not help pass time for him. *** The trial took three days. Trofim and Kostya, two brothers from Pyotr's congregation of the Council of Evangelical Baptist Churches were arrested shortly after he was. Now the authorities proceeded to try all three at once. Each of the three received five years loss of personal freedom, to be served in a workers' colony "to improve attitude and behavior," the prison to be the type with extra-strong discipline. Kostya and Trofim were convicted of having held religious services in their private homes. And young Pyotr was convicted of being the "spiritual leader" of this congregation. The two brothers and Pyotr could not help guffawing about these charges. "What can I do," Pyotr asked, rather embarrassed, "when the authorities have such a high opinion of me?" All three men were placed in Pyotr's cell No. 50. They didn't get the good sleeping places; those were already taken. The two brothers put their overcoats on the floor and tried to sleep. But some of the other prisoners squatted down next to them, and questions literally rained down on them. "If you had denied your God, would they have let you go?" "Naturally," said Kostya. "They made us that offer right in

the midst of the trial. They promised to let us go, but we won't pay that price for freedom." "That's stupid," said one of the prisoners. "When it comes to getting out, I'd denounce my mother!" "How many children do you have?" "I have eight, Kostya seven, and Pyotr is unmarried," replied Trofim. "You're treating your children terribly. You should have denied your God for their sake if for no other reason." Trofim raised his eyebrows and tried to explain. "Listen, you just don't understand that the kingdom of God happens to be more important to us than anything else. More important than life itself!" "Eh—you're a fanatic, huh?" "You're wrong," Kostya answered quietly. "The fanatics are those who try to exterminate us. That kind began by burning people at the stake. Nowadays they accomplish their purposes in those prisons and camps in Siberia. My father, who was a preacher, died in jail. Many years after he died, the state cleared his name. Now, my children are going through exactly the same thing which I experienced when I was their age. The devil hasn't given up yet, and he's not about to. It is sad that so many of you don't realize what kind of net you're caught in. It's because you don't know about the freedom of Jesus Christ. Compared to this freedom, nothing else is of any value." Trofim added: "The terrible thing is that man won't listen to the voice of God and will not turn to Him. This jail, for example, was built when Catherine II was queen. It is the result of human perversion. But if the whole world were under the rule of God— if all human beings were under His jurisdiction—there would be no need for any more jails. In the final run, the bigger criminal convicts the smaller one. And the small guy bears the heaviest burden because he was dumb enough to get caught." Old Sayranov nodded. "Right. Exactly. That's just the way I see it. I don't believe in Allah. I stole a sheep. Why did I steal it? I

wanted to eat; my child wanted to eat! If I worked, I'd make only a few kopecks, and what would that buy? If I believed in Allah, I would still get nothing to eat. The sheep would still have been stolen by someone. I was a sheepherder in a kholkhoz. Had a son with seven children. We didn't have food. I didn't steal; I took one of my—that is their—sheep and gave it to my son. Boss said, 'You go to jail.' He didn't believe in God. Catherine I believed in God, built the prison. Socialism won't tear the jail down. If I had enough to eat, if you had enough to eat, I wouldn't have to steal a sheep. I'd live in style. You'd live in style. We'd love Allah, love all mankind, we'd all be in paradise. But I stole sheep for my son. I like jail very much." The jailer opened the spy-hole and said, "Shut up with all this propaganda, you pack of Baptists. Keep it up, and I'll throw you in solitary. Shut up! Go to sleep!" They lay down to sleep. Because Trofim and Kostya had not yet become accustomed to the glare of the electric bulb overhead, which stayed lit all night, it took them a while to fall asleep. But Pyotr fell asleep immediately.

3. THE CHOKING WEB It was spring in the southern part of Kasachstan. The small provincial capital was not much different from the villages around it. Life there was very quiet and peaceful. On the edge of the little town was an old but well-kept little house surrounded by flowering bushes. Chickens clucked in the yard. A dog stretched his paws out of the doghouse, sleeping warily, ready to bark at anyone who passed nearby. In a tiny room inside the house a broad-shouldered, elderly man sat writing at a table next to the window. In the corridor outside, the woman of the house put down her basket and stepped inside the room to speak with her husband. "But, Vanya," she exclaimed. "This is no good! You work in here day and night. You don't even give yourself enough time to sleep. At least come down into the garden and catch a breath of fresh air!" "Got no time, mother. We have a Bible study for the congregation scheduled for tomorrow. And teaching takes preparation." "There's a proper time for everything, Vanya. Come outside and look at our beautiful cherry tree. It's in bloom right now!" Vanya Lapin was about sixty-eight. The members of the congregation had not noticed how much their leader had aged lately. Up to then, he had been able to carry on the affairs of his Reformed Adventist congregation without any difficulty. After all, he was healthy as a horse! But that evening his wife, Nyura, finally succeeded in dragging him down to the yard. "Oh, these men!" she exclaimed. "They're like stones in the bottom of a barrel, sitting around in a room all day without even opening the window!" Vanya obediently sat down on a bench. "How beautiful this tree is!" he said in wonderment. "It's true. I haven't been looking at anything outside! My eyes have

been shut to all this!" He took a deep breath. Then he snapped a small branch full of blooms off the tree. On it were five buds which had not bloomed. This caused him to reflect on how much the buds on a tree were like man on this earth: God cares for man day in and day out. Yet so little fruit comes from His efforts. That was why the world was in such trouble. Yet there were so few to help heal its wounds! Vanya began to think about the congregation; how sad it was that even in this group, so few actually helped to do God's work! He sighed, saying to himself that the troubles of the world were big enough to overpower him. Just yesterday, one of the sisters of the congregation had come to him complaining that her little daughter was being forced to join the Pioneer Club, even though the child did not want to join. The teacher had turned the whole class against the child, saying that she was eating Soviet bread while still praying to that foolish God of hers! Of course the child had run home crying. Some of the other children had run after her and had thrown a brick at her. She had been bleeding when she arrived home. "What are we to do?" the woman had asked Vanya. "We must pray, sister. God has the strength to put down the powers of the devil. But our own victory can be had only at Gethsemane, and the way to Gethsemane passes through Golgotha. In Gethsemane, in the great battle of prayer—the battle against the powers of darkness—the victory has already been won! The Lord will come to our aid quickly if we pray for His help!" All through that night Vanya had been on his knees praying, until finally his heart had grown calmer. But in the morning the troubles of his congregation had preoccupied him again and he could find no solution for them. There was another nagging problem. Members of the congregation's youth group, composed of tenth-graders, were begging to be baptized. But could he grant their wish? Surely everyone in school would soon learn about it and persecution

would follow. Would they be strong enough to resist? "O Lord, please help us!" the congregation's leader implored. Yes, he thought, the church must be kept separate from the state. But the state simply did not want to be excluded from anything. Constantly, the state stuck its nose into the church's affairs, giving precise instructions. Youth assemblies were prohibited. Preaching the gospel? Under no circumstances! Bible teaching? Inadmissible! And many more restrictions on top of that. Every church member must register. But should a church member register? Could the church trust the state? If we register, Vanya thought, I wouldn't really be the leader of a congregation anymore. I'd be the state's representative within a religious cult. That's a totally godless idea. But the local Communist party headquarters are threatening to put me in jail..... He began to be overcome by dark, unhappy thoughts. And he started to feel very lonely even though his wife was nearby, as well as his sons and daughters. But with whom could he share this burden? Vanya, he told himself, it's on your shoulders. Carry it alone, even if it's difficult. "But it is so difficult, Lord! To whom can I say how heavy this burden is, besides You, Lord? "Something is wrong with Lukach, too. He must be sick but won't say so. He won't tell anybody what's wrong with him. Help us all, dear Lord!" The sun vanished behind the hills. It was getting dark. Lapin rose and, with halting steps, walked toward the house. And from the barn, Nyura noticed for the first time how difficult it had become for him to walk this short distance. She said to herself, He is getting old, my Vanya. *** Lukach felt quite safe in the office of the kholkhoz. He knew his job very well. He'd been the bookkeeper there for twenty years and everything was "up to snuff," as he liked to say.

The president of the kholkhoz respected him
have lost his post long ago if the kholkhoz he ran were not so productive. So he was tolerated, at least for the time being. The president did not worry much about losing his job. After all, when they elected him, a tractor driver, as president, the kholkhoz had been in last place in the district. And now his unit's production rate was making headlines in the whole republic of Kasachstan. "Life would be a lot easier for me if they dismissed me!" he used to say. The party functionaries at headquarters didn't like this attitude. So they began to put pressure on Osman Dyura, the local party secretary. Dyura came from a family of former Moslems, and he even possessed a tiny spark of respect for God. This is why he was sympathetic toward Lukach and left him alone. And that is why Luckach sat firmly "in the saddle" (as he used to say) at his place of work. Then disaster struck. Dyura abruptly vanished somewhere and was replaced by a new party secretary. And this man immediately sat down and had a secret conversation with the kholkhoz president. From that time onward Lukach found himself in disfavor with his former supporter. Soon after that state auditors arrived to probe into the kholkhoz's books. Lukach knew quite well that his books were in perfect order. So he didn't fret about their visit. He left them alone and went home, after wishing the men God's favor. The auditors grinned and thanked him. In a few days Lukach was summoned to appear before the kholkhoz's board of directors in the office of the local secretary of the Communist party. The audit had been concluded. Lukach arrived brimming with confidence. But as he entered he was immediately shocked by the forbidding demeanor of the man who greeted him. The smile disappeared from Lukach's features. He knew something about this man. But he couldn't bring himself to remember where and when he had run into him before. The mysterious stranger gave the bookkeeper a penetrating look and announced that he was from KGB headquarters.

Lukach sat down across from the functionary in the place that had been indicated. His hands betrayed his uneasiness. He quickly hid them underneath the table. His whole body started to tremble. Gone was his former self-assurance. The KGB man didn't waste any pleasantries: "Citizen Lukach, we have discovered that you have embezzled twenty thousand rubles." "Nonsense! Lies! Fakery!" Those were the terms Lukach used to defend himself. But where and when had he met this cold-eyed man before? The words "Citizen Lukach" rang through his consciousness. Such a cutting voice! It robbed one of selfconfidence. He had heard this appellation once before. And that cunning, predatory look on his face—! Lukach almost blurted out, "I know you." Yes, it was he! The secret police lieutenant who, years before, had entered Lukach's home accompanied by soldiers of the security forces. And who had spoken those six fateful words to his father: "Citizen Lukach, you are under arrest!" Lukach remembered the scene: His mother conducted his father to the door with a sad and loving look on her face. She kissed him and said, "Be strong, my love." His father suddenly looked ten years older and gazed down at the children with a stricken expression. Lukach, the oldest child, began to cry: "Daddy, dad, don't go, dad!" He threw himself down on the floor and grasped his father's legs—until the lieutenant kicked him hard with his polished boots. He couldn't remember the rest. When he regained consciousness, he was in bed, his mother wiping away the blood running from his mouth. Father was gone. And he never returned. His mother's inquiries at the prison camp headquarters (Gulag) in Moscow were answered with a brief sentence: "Only the date of apprehension is known, there is no further information." Lukach still carried a reminder of that night: a scar extending from his upper lip to the left temple. Now that memory suddenly became alive again and was sitting opposite him, boring through him with his icy eyes.

"Tell me," Lukach asked the officer, "where did you take my father? What did you do to him?" The former lieutenant looked at Lukach without responding. "What is your rank?" asked Lukach. Silently the officer showed him his identification card; he had risen to the rank of lieutenant colonel in the KGB. The photo on the card again reminded Lukach of that terrible moment in his childhood. He returned the card to the officer. "Judging from your earlier achievements, you should certainly have been promoted to general by now," Lukach commented. "And if I am being accused of embezzlement or falsification of records, then why doesn't the police or the department of economic crimes handle my case?" "Silence, Citizen Lukach," growled the lieutenant colonel. "What is it that you want from me?" "I want just one thing: that you will not have to go to prison." "There is no embezzlement in my books; I am absolutely certain of that," Lukach said. "Please, Lukach, listen to reason and forget about your infallibility. Even a horse which has four legs stumbles sometimes!" The lieutenant colonel handed the bookkeeper the examination records. Lukach tried to see what was in them— obviously they contained contrived charges. Yet when he looked through the material, which covered several pages, he was unable to find the tiny alteration which allegedly proved embezzlement. The lieutenant colonel looked at him with sharp eyes. Finally, Lukach put the file down, totally drained. He asked, "Where did my father lose his life?" "He was shot a week after we arrested him," the officer answered. "But why?" The lieutenant colonel shrugged without saying a word. "I know perfectly well that my father never harmed a soul in his whole life. Since he was a preacher of the Reformed Adventist

Church, he couldn't possibly commit a crime." "Listen," the lieutenant colonel interrupted impatiently. "You have seven children. I hope that even though you committed this crime, what happened to your father will not have to be repeated. At the very least you could get ten years in jail, perhaps even fifteen. But it is within my power to acquit you of the crime right now. "I am quite certain that your father died an innocent man. Why don't you allow us officials to make it up to you? However, we would like to see you use your head in the future. Please understand that we made a mistake with the Baptists when we rushed them too hard to accept certain documents. It almost brought on a mass protest among the believers. And it actually led to the creation of the central body of the Evangelical Baptists. "We had not adequately laid the groundwork with the Baptists for these documents. We did not establish an adequate basis for them, one might say. And of course it brought us a setback. I can even foresee that we will have to take a couple of steps backward in order to be able to mount a more effective attack against these religions in the future. I am speaking frankly to you because I know that you Reformed Adventists have nothing whatever in common with the Baptists. It would certainly not be in your interest to inform the Baptists of our conversation. That would seriously endanger your life! "But we certainly could use your assistance. It has come to our attention that the separatist Baptists are setting up a printing press. On top of that, they are receiving Bibles from other countries. At the moment, the trickle of tourists is bringing them the Bibles. But there may be masses of tourists in the future—and we must simply put an end to this religion. It is not in the state's interest to have believers gain unrestricted access to Bibles and other religious literature. "We know that there are those kinds of Baptists in this town and inside your kholkhoz. I am well aware of the fact that the leader of your congregation has a good relationship with these

people. Would you be willing to help us determine how close his connection to these Baptists is? It wouldn't make you very happy if he suddenly turned into a Baptist, would it? Now in order for you to get the information to us, you could spread a rumor among the Baptists that their council members have had contact with your leader and that they would soon turn away to Adventism. While you are conducting your investigation for us, you may be sure that we will begin to bring the leaders of the Baptist congregation into court. This will mean that you may have to break off your relationship with your congregation's leader. Or, on the other hand, you may face expulsion from your congregation. You will have to accept that. Another path you could follow is to initiate talk against your own congregation's leader. You could state, as I have suggested, that he leans in the direction of the Baptists. In this way, all of the connections between the two congregations will eventually be severed. It can all be done without much difficulty. And surely, what you will be doing is no sin, since the doctrinal purity of your church demands forceful action! So please sign this paper, agreeing to our request, and you will not be put behind bars for your embezzlement. In addition, you will receive a nice little sum of money." The lieutenant colonel placed a large sheet of paper, closely covered with typewritten material, before Lukach. Filled with revulsion, Lukach pushed the paper away and said, "I will not work for you." "Not work? We don't really want you to work for us! We want some service from you in return for a service we will perform for you, nothing else. You do what we want, and in return we will destroy the evidence of your malfeasance." "I cannot accept that," Lukach repeated. "My dear Lukach! Your congregation and the Baptists work hard to keep their ranks clean and their teaching untainted. You can help them with that, and at the same time inform us how far the liaison between your congregation's leader and the evangelical Baptists has proceeded. That is all there is to it."

Lukach sighed, "I can't do it." "As you wish, as you wish! You will have no chance to change your mind later. I will take you into investigative custody in connection with the embezzlement. I will then have the right to ask for at least fifteen years' imprisonment for you, since the twenty thousand rubles you? However, we would like to see you use your head in the future. Please understand that we made a mistake with the Baptists when we rushed them too hard to accept certain documents. It almost brought on a mass protest among the believers. And it actually led to the creation of the central body of the Evangelical Baptists. "We had not adequately laid the groundwork with the Baptists for these documents. We did not establish an adequate basis for them, one might say. And of course it brought us a setback. I can even foresee that we will have to take a couple of steps backward in order to be able to mount a more effective attack against these religions in the future. I am speaking frankly to you because I know that you Reformed Adventists have nothing whatever in common with the Baptists. It would certainly not be in your interest to inform the Baptists of our conversation. That would seriously endanger your life! "But we certainly could use your assistance. It has come to our attention that the separatist Baptists are setting up a printing press. On top of that, they are receiving Bibles from other countries. At the moment, the trickle of tourists is bringing them the Bibles. But there may be masses of tourists in the future—and we must simply put an end to this religion. It is not in the state's interest to have believers gain unrestricted access to Bibles and other religious literature. "We know that there are those kinds of Baptists in this town and inside your kholkhoz. I am well aware of the fact that the leader of your congregation has a good relationship with these people. Would you be willing to help us determine how close his connection to these Baptists is? It wouldn't make you very happy if he suddenly turned into a Baptist, would it? Now in order for

you to get the information to us, you could spread a rumor among the Baptists that their council members have had contact with your leader and that they would soon turn away to Adventism. While you are conducting your investigation for us, you may be sure that we will begin to bring the leaders of the Baptist congregation into court. This will mean that you may have to break off your relationship with your congregation's leader. Or, on the other hand, you may face expulsion from your congregation. You will have to accept that. Another path you could follow is to initiate talk against your own congregation's leader. You could state, as I have suggested, that he leans in the direction of the Baptists. In this way, all of the connections between the two congregations will eventually be severed. It can all be done without much difficulty. And surely, what you will be doing is no sin, since the doctrinal purity of your church demands forceful action! So please sign this paper, agreeing to our request, and you will not be put behind bars for your embezzlement. In addition, you will receive a nice little sum of money." The lieutenant colonel placed a large sheet of paper, closely covered with typewritten material, before Lukach. Filled with revulsion, Lukach pushed the paper away and said, "I will not work for you." "Not work? We don't really want you to work for us! We want some service from you in return for a service we will perform for you, nothing else. You do what we want, and in return we will destroy the evidence of your malfeasance." "I cannot accept that," Lukach repeated. "My dear Lukach! Your congregation and the Baptists work hard to keep their ranks clean and their teaching untainted. You can help them with that, and at the same time inform us how far the liaison between your congregation's leader and the evangelical Baptists has proceeded. That is all there is to it." Lukach sighed, "I can't do it." "As you wish, as you wish! You will have no chance to change your mind later. I will take you into investigative custody

in connection with the embezzlement. I will then have the right to ask for at least fifteen years' imprisonment for you, since the twenty thousand rubles had been embezzled for the church's use, namely for the purchase of a printing press for the Baptists. We could even try for your execution by shooting." Lukach stared at him, totally drained. "W-w-what p-p-press? W-w-what lies are you making up?" He turned ashen; soundless sobbing shook his body. "Don't get hysterical, Lukach." The lieutenant colonel held a glass of water up to Lukach's mouth. The bookkeeper's teeth chattered, and some of the water spilled onto his suit as he tried to swallow. He calmed down a little. The lieutenant colonel went on: "You're right, Lukach. The things I told you about the missing money are not true. But I must repeat: everything depends on how strong your fears for your future really are. We can do anything to you. We can accuse you or we can acquit you. You must choose the lesser of these two evils. Your fate is in your own hands! It's a case of either-or; I can see no alternative for you now. What a shameful thing it would be for you, a believer, to be caught as an embezzler! Your children will be shunned by all the others. The children, in turn, will despise their own father! Your dishonor will also defile the entire congregation. The press in the whole country will report that you believers are actually thieves and counterfeiters. You should certainly worry about the reputation of your Christian religion. What will your children think of when you're in jail for embezzlement? Imagine what their comrades in school will call them! Don't be so cruel to your children and to your dear wife. Isn't your family worth a sacrifice? Well, isn't it?" The lieutenant colonel pushed the paper back toward Lukach. Stop, Lukach! he said to himself. This will be the end of you\ Yet, despite all that, the bookkeeper, totally confounded, put

his signature at the bottom of the paper without giving it another glance. Then he fainted. The document instantly vanished inside the officer's jacket. Then, while watching the still-unconscious Lukach, he brought out a cigarette lighter and held the flame under the falsified bookkeeping records. When the flames almost reached his fingers, he threw the charred remains into the ashtray. He picked up the jug of water and the glass; now he could bring Lukach back from his unconscious state. The lieutenant colonel had accomplished his task in an exemplary fashion. He could be satisfied with the results of the interrogation. Finally, when the bookkeeper began to regain consciousness, the lieutenant colonel stalked out so silently and quickly that Lukach, waking up, began to think that he had only had a bad dream. Yes, he decided, still only half conscious, this was only a dream. But how did I get to this office? 1 must have had a terrible dream. Ah yes-the audit! And I fell asleep while waiting. The secretary of the local Communist party entered. "Dyura," Lukach turned toward him, "how did I get into your office? I've had a terrible, terrible dream. Is the audit finished?" The party secretary noticed that Lukach had turned grey. "I'm not Dyura. You're obviously not yourself. Why don't you go home and rest? We will arrange to put you in a rest home for a vacation. The audit is complete; your figures are in order. Now go home and take it easy for a while." The party secretary handed Lukach the real accounting papers. The bookkeeper stared at them uncomprehendingly. The auditors had judged his work to be exemplary. Suddenly he started to laugh. "I knew this was all a dream!" And then, no longer laughing: "But what a terrible dream!" Silently, the party secretary helped Lukach up and helped him straighten out his clothing. Then he led him to his home. When Mrs. Lukach saw her husband, she was profoundly

shaken. Without saying a word, she put him to bed. The next day an ambulance took him to the hospital, where he lay in bed with a high fever, constantly repeating the words: "Citizen Lukach, you are under arrest." His wife, his children, and his fellow church members could not understand what was wrong with him, and he would never in his life be able to tell them what he had witnessed. An apparent embezzlement-twenty thousand rubles-purity of the church's teachings-Baptist printing press-you are under arrest-. The district capital's best doctors fought for his life. Finally the crisis was over and Lukach was sent to a sanitorium to recover. But from that time on he was always silent and introspective; the happy Lukach of former days no longer existed. Each time he smiled his wife, longing for her former Kolya, felt like weeping. She, too, had become a sad creature. Lukach showed only a sort of guilt-ridden kindness toward her and toward the children, whom he no longer disciplined. He realized they tried especially hard to be good so that their sick father would not become upset. Lukach returned to his job and did it in his usual, conscientious fashion. In the meantime Dyura had returned to his post in the kholkhoz. The guest appearance of the outside party secretary came to an end when the audit was completed. The kholkhoz president, too, treated his bookkeeper with the utmost respect and sympathy. And at various intervals, mysterious vouchers from somewhere caused kholkhoz funds to be paid to Lukach. He could not understand why the management suddenly treated him so generously. He was even able to afford a motorcycle with a sidecar now. For months after the encounter with the KGB man no one requested to see Lukach or attempted to get in touch with him. And so he actually began to believe that what had transpired was merely a dream. Late that summer Lukach received permission to take an entire month's vacation. The family discussed how to spend this

period. They decided the mother was to remain at home with the younger children at the outset, while the father was to vacation at the beach with the two eldest, who would return home after a week. Then the next two children would join their father, followed by the twins; and finally the mother's turn would come, along with the smallest child. In this way the entire family would enjoy a vacation with their father. In former days the congregation had taken exception to such long holidays. It was felt that even the bookkeeper could do something of value for the church. But this time even Lapin, the preacher, advised Lukach to take the whole period and to just relax completely. Life at the beach was quiet. Only the putt-putt of a tractor in the distance intruded upon the total calm. But this did not disturb Lukach in the least. Along the shoreline, purple willow trees grew, and here and there a birch tree. Groups of wild ducks cruised above the beach and occasionally hurled themselves steeply downward into the water. Wild geese with proud, erect heads swept the beach with their eyes. Lukach could not stop enjoying this view. He and the boys began to construct a hut from wood they got from the trees nearby. It was finished very quickly. Then the boys spent time fishing while their father rested in the cool grass. They lived a carefree life there at the beach. In the mornings, they rose with the sun and ran for a quick swim. They got dressed —the mornings were as cool as fall—and the father read a passage from Isaiah to the boys. He then explained the text to the children. Then they took turns in leading their devotions. After that the father and sons opened a can of food, boiled water for tea, and sliced off huge hunks of bread. Then the three breakfasted. Lukach was overjoyed. Who could possibly break up this idyllic life the three were leading! Only a criminal would dare to do so! Unfortunately, such a criminal was already preparing to do just that. After the first six days had passed, the oldest son got

into the seat of the motorcycle, the younger one climbed into the sidecar, and they were off to bring the next shift of vacationers to the beach. Lukach felt very lonesome after the children left. He went walking in the underbrush along the beach, some distance from the hut. "Hello!" a voice cried. Lukach shivered at the sound. A hunter, carrying a rifle, approached him. "What are you so terrified about, man? I am spending the day at the beach with my son. When we discovered your hut, we wondered who might still be vacationing here this late in the summer. And now I discover that it is you, an old acquaintance of mine! I cannot tell you how happy I was to see you! This indeed is the long arm of coincidence." Lukach was amazed. Who is this hunter? What does he want here? From where does he know me? The hunter joked and told little stories during their walk back to the hut. The hunter's alleged son was already at work starting a fire and boiling water for tea. Suddenly Lukach began to grasp the situation: It wasn't a dream I had after all! His head began to throb and he sank down on the straw pallet next to the house. Meanwhile the lieutenant colonel—that is who the hunter was—and his assistant busied themselves spreading out a paper tablecloth, then brought out some baked goods and offered Lukach a glass of tea. The lieutenant colonel, who didn't remain silent for a single minute, laughed at his own stories. Lukach calmed down a bit. It was clear that he had to get a grip on himself if he did not want to lose his sanity. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the lieutenant colonel's manner changed. He asked, "What have you found out about your congregation's leader and his relationship with the Baptists?" "Nothing, lieutenant colonel. I will not work on your behalf and want to know nothing about such relationships." "Oh yes indeed, Lukach! You will work for us indeed! You agreed in writing to do that." He pulled a piece of paper from his

pocket and said, "Read this!" But he would not allow it to leave his hands and began to read from it himself: "I, Lukach, member of the Reformed Adventists congregation in _, hereby agree to inform the authorities about the locale of the members' assemblies, about the actions of the congregation's leader, about the meetings of youth groups, about the baptism of children, etc., as well as about any other subject of interest to the authorities." Underneath this was the unmistakable, sweeping signature of Lukach. Lukach dropped his glass on the floor and attempted to tear the paper from the lieutenant colonel's hands. However, the man was ready for this. With a deft Judo thrust, he threw Lukach to the floor. That took the energy out of Lukach, and he watched grimly as the paper disappeared into the lieutenant colonel's jacket. He was no longer capable of resistance. As the lieutenant colonel's "son" handed him a cup with a darkish liquid in it, Lukach drank obediently. Thereafter he became disinterested in what was going on. It seemed as if he was paralyzed when the lieutenant colonel pressed a point: "All right now, Lukach. Please answer a couple of questions. How many school age children were baptized? Who is responsible for the youth group? Hurry, answer before your sons return!" Lifelessly, robbed of his willpower, Lukach complied. The liquid had turned him into an impotent robot. Later he would not be able to remember a single thing he had told his two visitors. That evening Lukach returned home with his two sons, his vacation ended prematurely.

4. A SILENT CRY FOR HELP Lapin had called the congregation's council together in order to deliberate on some important church matters. They gathered at seven in the evening. All evening Lapin stole sideward glances at Lukach, who sat off by himself looking sad and not participating in the meeting. Was Lukach sick? He had looked better after his stay in the sanitorium. But now, after his stay at the beach, he seemed to look worse again. Lapin was frequently lost in his conjectures about Lukach. What saddened him most was his apparent inability to communicate with Lukach. He had known Lukach's father, who had been a preacher in the neighboring village. The father was such a joyous man—he never hung his head in sadness. He was reported to have smiled as they led him to his execution. The head jailer reportedly remarked upon seeing the dead man's face, "He still laughs at us, even after he is dead! What gives these Christians these powerful convictions?" After the meeting, the two men walked home together. "Why are you so downhearted, brother?" Lapin asked Lukach. "Well, I just don't feel well, mentally or physically. I can't explain it in a few words. But may I come to your house and speak with you privately sometime? Do you have some time?" "But of course! Better now than later!" But when they reached the street where Lukach lived, Lukach turned away and said, "All right, I'll come by one of these days. Goodnight!" "Do come. I am anxious to talk with you. Good night," said Lapin emphatically. Lukach vanished into the night. The minister looked after him with concern. Should he have allowed his brother to walk off without getting to the bottom of what troubled him? I hope that he comes to see me soon, he thought.

*** Lapin did not know that the meeting had been under surveillance all evening. And so he did not realize that Lukach's desire to see Lapin and to confess what troubled him had actually sealed Lukach's fate. As he finished his walk homeward, Lapin was unable to chase these troubled thoughts away. God had reached out to the young, persuading them to repent and join the church. How could anyone turn them away? To refuse baptism to such people would be nothing less than a sin. The youth group, following the example of the free evangelical Baptist congregation, had started a singing group and formed an orchestra. They did all of this without informing me, the congregation's leader, Lapin thought, because they did not want to burden me! The older members of the congregation, those scared rabbits, constantly warn me not to permit the youth group to participate in these activities. But I cannot forbid them this! Especially not after I learned how powerfully a young brother preached at one of the youth meetings! Such fire would never be seen among the older congregation members, who were forever looking out the windows during services to see if the police were coming! The young people weren't afraid of the police or of death itself. We ought to help them even more, fanning their flame; instead, the older members advise me to throttle them. But as long as I am leader of the congregation, the young people will continue to serve God in full devotion. Even if they have inherited a few of the free Baptists' ways, that is no misfortune. The crucial thing is that they fight against sin in total sincerity. But Lapin had also been informed that some of the younger sisters had been holding children's services in secret. That, too, they had evidently copied from the Baptists. The Baptists were in the habit of holding children's services, and many of them had

been arrested as a consequence. "O Lord," Lapin prayed, "don't let the wolves tear the poor little sheep to pieces. Please let me go to prison instead of them!" Imprisonment. Even the slightest thought of that brought on nightmares. He could not forget that dark, horrible night! How many evil things the enemy does under the cover of night! He had spent one period of imprisonment in a camp which contained predominantly thieves. Some alleged "thieves from Poland" had been transferred to his camp. And the ones who had been unwilling to make certain compromises with the government took it upon themselves to take revenge on those who had collaborated. Knives were wielded all during that fateful, horrible night. And from dawn until dusk the next day, trucks carried off the corpses. Lapin himself had been spared by some miracle; the men on both sides of him had been butchered. And those who remained were transported away. The convoy leader let it be known that the destination would be the Northeast. At the Ennisej, they were all to be put aboard a barge. Many hundreds of prisoners were chased into the below-decks areas. They were counted off in columns of five. But just as they reached Lapin's row, the officer on the barge called out, "No more! We're full!" So the remainder were sent off to Taischet. Afterwards, they learned that the prisoner-barge had sunk. Lapin realized it was easier to let the prisoners drown than to have a lengthy investigation into the stabbings which had taken place that night. *** Lapin tried to chase these nightmarish thoughts away. Quietly, he opened the door to the garden of his property. The dog came running over to him happily. Lapin petted the dog, then entered the door to his house, which was still unlocked. Quietly, in order not to wake his wife, he tiptoed into the kitchen. There she sat, her grey head in her hands. She had dozed off!

"Nyura, don't you want to lie down, to sleep?" he whispered to her. She woke up, still dazed, and said, "Oh, ifs you, Vanya! I waited and waited, and finally I must have fallen asleep. Why don't you have a bite to eat? I'm just sorry that everything is cold by now!" "No, dearest, I don't want anything to eat. Why don't you go upstairs to sleep? I'm not ready for sleep yet." "But, Vanya," she said, "tell me: do you suffer from insomnia, or is something wrong?" "A number of things, mother. Why did I forget how to leave my worries about the congregation with the Lord? I'm so disturbed, so worried about everything! I'm so troubled about why and how the authorities are learning all our secrets. Of course our worship is carried on in the open; but they also know about decisions made at our secret church meetings, even those made by the church council! They seem to leave me alone, but the deacon was brought up before them yesterday and confronted with all sorts of things: you had an assembly here; you made these decisions there; you baptized minors here. In addition, the deacon was told that I, the leader, no longer lived under the denomination's laws, but followed any way I might choose. "The brothers will hang me with my own rope yet! Shortly after that, the deacon turned against me, saying that even the KGB knew that I was turning in the direction of the Baptists. He said I had claimed that this would work out in the best interest of our community. Of course, our people didn't understand this yet, the KGB told them, but their God would make it all clear to them one day!" Those were the troubles Lapin shared with his wife that evening. Because of his function as the congregation's leader, Lapin had recently conducted its basic teaching sessions. In the two hours of this session he had answered questions about such things as marriage, and about what occurred during communion. And he

had explained in due course how the secrets of the church were to be kept. Then he had depicted what he thought was improper during the evangelization meetings. He had adopted a number of biblical viewpoints from other denominations; after all, he had shared his experiences with members of other denominations during his eighteen years of Soviet incarceration. Nyura now sat down next to Lapin on the bench and rested her head thoughtfully on his shoulder. In forty years of marriage, she had learned to understand him without need of words. The eighteen years of their separation had actually brought them closer together. They had always been one in the Spirit. For ten years during his absence she had received no news whatever from him, since he had been sentenced to serve his term without the right to receive or send mail. Yet she had courageously waited for him, raising their seven children alone. Nyura knew of many of her husband's cares and concerns and helped him shoulder them. Without telling him she had been meeting with some of her sisters in Christ to pray for those who labored for the kingdom of God. Now she sensed that evil tidings were heading their way. Her tears flowed and dropped down on his hand. "You are weeping, Nyura?" "Only a little, Vanya. I'll pull myself together." "But," she said, attempting to change the subject, "do you know that your grandchildren are growing up, and you hardly see them?" "You are right, Nyura. I've got much to do. But thank God, all of our children and grandchildren love the Lord. Let us pray together and then go to sleep." Together they knelt and prayed. Early the following morning, the dog's loud barking woke them. Nyura hurried out of bed and looked out of the window. "Vanya," she said tonelessly, "get up. It's the police." "Don't hurry about letting them in. First let us get dressed and pray together. They can wait a little while out there. I wonder what brings them here this early in the morning."

As they rose from their knees Nyura put her head on Vanya's chest. She no longer cried; she knew that the end had come and that she must walk courageously with Vanya toward his uncertain fate. The police banged noisily on the gate and called loudly for Lapin. The neighbors had begun to collect outside on the sidewalk. After first chaining the dog, the leader of the congregation walked firmly toward the gate to let the police in. "Why did it take you so long to open up?" asked the officer brusquely. "What brings you here so early in the morning?" countered Lapin. "You can sleep in jail as long as you want, you old bum," said one policeman. The search of the house took from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon. Every little piece of paper which carried the name of God was duly confiscated, along with the only Bible the congregation possessed. The promise that it would eventually be returned to the believers in the congregation was never kept. During the search Lapin and his wife sat on the worn sofa and spoke quietly. He gave her his final instructions for the congregation. A man in civilian clothes hovered nearby, taking note of everything that was said. Lapin saw this and was very careful about what he mentioned to his wife. Nyura courageously held her emotions in check. She could cry after everyone was gone—when the police and Vanya had departed and she was alone with her Lord. He would be the sole witness to her tears. Lapin was enormously proud of his wife's strength in the face of this horror. Later, in the prison camp, he would lovingly tell of his wife's devotion and her faith toward him and toward God. There could be no better wife than Nyura! At Lapin's leave taking, Nyura squeezed both of his hands. "Go with God, Vanya." "May the Lord protect you, Nyura. Don't be sad. Don't cry." Wordlessly she shook her head. After all, she was but a

human being. And after Vanya's departure, surely she could cry. "Make room; get out of my way, old lady! Why are you standing around like a column of salt?" A policeman pushed her aside, so that she fell down on the sofa. This was what the Soviet Union had educated that man to do. He was young enough to be her grandson! Lapin, wheezing, climbed into the "Black Maria," musing that throughout his forty years' leadership in the congregation, this was the only means of transportation which had seemed always to be "at his disposal": the police's "Black Marias"— prison vans—and once in a while a Volga automobile belonging to the KGB. In eighteen years of Soviet detention there had been no lack of transportation, of going places. Yet 1 will most likely die without ever having owned even a rusty old bicycle! Vanya thought. He was led into an empty office of the KGB building, there to await the sealing of his fate. *** "All right, I have been given the duty of speaking with you. Let's get to know each other," said the KGB officer upon entering. He showed the congregation leader his identification card. Lapin looked the photograph over carefully. Of course! One does not easily forget people like this. Yes, Lapin recognized the officer just as Lukach had. This secret police officer had occupied himself with the affairs of the believers in this district for many years. Many believers owed their arrests to this man, and many owed their death to his actions. "It's so nice that I can finally talk with you at leisure." The officer used the personal form of "you," which was a sign of contempt, but quickly changed to a more courteous appellation. "You have been the Adventists' leader for forty years. Why have you introduced new rituals into your church? Could I dare to

hope for an explanation from you?" Lapin, amused, replied, "I feel as if I were standing before a high church authority, and as if this noble eminence were asking me a profound theological question! Did the Soviet regime ordain you to the office of archbishop?" "Quiet!" The lieutenant colonel slammed his fist angrily on the table. But the good leader of the congregation continued to survey the official coolly—he was cursing like someone driving a team of horses. "You have grown up, it's true. And the moral code of the Communists has had no effect on you," Lapin said quietly. Either the lieutenant colonel was weary of cursing, or else Lapin's reminder about the official manual of the party, which specified "humane treatment," surprised him. Whatever the reason, he became quiet—and suddenly grinned. "You certainly got me angry! But tell me now, why don't you people want to register?" "That is another matter. I can answer that question. You people have placed the evangelical Baptists into such a difficult position that they cannot even breathe. When they wish to elect a representative to the central council, they must provide you with a list of the candidates. If anyone wants to join a congregation, you make him apply to you for a permit. Then, after he has registered, you hang out your fishing lines for him. And when it comes to baptism, again the list of those wishing to be baptized must be submitted to you. "And then you become officious. You want to know how the candidate for baptism did his penance. And when he reached the legal age of eighteen. If he is less than eighteen, you refuse permission for the baptism, no matter what the circumstances. In case of a funeral, your permission must be obtained for this, too. In case of a meeting of the congregation, an observer from your organization must also be invited. When it comes to ordination— again you require a list of the candidates, and you decide who can

or cannot receive clerical office. "No, no, this will never do for me. I would rather not have my office as a shepherd of the flock! Or if worst comes to worst —or perhaps this would be best for all—I would rot away in prison." "That you will certainly do if you do not accept our conditions," the lieutenant colonel answered. "Listen, you have been in prison camp with Karev. He is open to negotiations! He started out on his career as a clergyman with our encouragement. He's doing just fine. And God will not punish him for his transgressions. You see, Karev knows that God is an invention of man; and, thanks to Karev's good sense, he listens to us instead of to One who does not exist." "You are not going to get anywhere with me by disparaging Karev! Even if he made certain concessions to you, I won't believe a thing until I have spoken with him. After I've had my private talk, then I will form my own opinion, but I won't listen to such calumny from you! I know how good you are at distorting facts. You did that even at the founding of the Soviet regime—which I myself welcomed! Yet you've kept me in your jails for two decades." The elderly follower of Christ spoke with deep conviction and vehemence, gazing straight into the lieutenant colonel's eyes. The officer drummed pensively on the desktop with his fingers. "Hmm-hmm. So you will not be convinced. Well, fine. You just think about all this in your prison cell. In about a month we'll talk again. And at that time, if you've finally come to your senses, I'll see to it that you are freed." After a ten-minute wait Lapin was led into the KGB jail cell. *** Approximately a month later the lieutenant colonel did order Lapin brought back to him for interrogation. Lapin was ill. His high blood pressure caused him much difficulty. He suffered

constantly from severe headaches. His eyes were tearing. Silently, the lieutenant colonel offered his hand to the old man and invited him to take a seat. "Make the right decision, and you will be free. I can well imagine how tired you are right now. You believers have tired us out for a long time. All right, this is it: if you say yes, you accept our conditions; if you say no, you go to prison, or more accurately, to no man's land. All right, what is the verdict?" "No." "You old fool! You must be sick of living! You are an idiot! The angels are screaming out your name! Every day your old lady stands in front of the gate here at the KGB and begs us to let you have a package from her. You're ruining your health completely! But no, this old fool is stubborn. You'll die in just a little while and not a soul will know where your grave is. Think about it, weigh the consequences of what you're doing! Well?" "No." "Incidentally," said the lieutenant colonel, now suddenly in a confidential tone, "Lukach was considerably more sensible than you." "Wha-a-at?" The word escaped from Lapin's mouth. "So that is what caused him so much misery! That's why the poor man was in such a miserable state! We thought that the vacation at the beach would do him some good. But it looks as if he needed another kind of medicine. Now I know how to help him." The lieutenant colonel fixed his hard eyes on Lapin while letting loose his next salvo: "He doesn't need your help anymore. Your brother believers have already buried him six feet underground." Blow after verbal blow came raining down on the poor old man. He asked to be led back to his cell. Once there, he fell to his knees and loudly called out to the Lord. The guard observed him through the spyhole. "Why, oh why, didn't I listen to him that night?" sobbed Lapin. "That could have changed everything! Lord, forgive me

my sin! Have mercy on me, a sinner, Lord! Why didn't I run after him? O Lord, if he did not confess because of me, then punish me for his sins! I am at fault for his condition; I did not notice the deep wound in his heart! Dear Lord, only a paid witness behaves like he did—didn't he have a chance to confess to anyone?" He stayed awake on his knees the whole night. Toward morning, he tumbled from his knees to the cell floor and lay there, still praying. Only during his trial did Lapin learn that after his arrest his friend Lukach had become ill, had called his wife and eldest son to his bedside, and had confessed everything. Then he had died in peace. This fact comforted the congregation's leader.

5. THE BAPTISM July brings some fairly hot weather to southern Kasachstan, but on this particular Sunday it was cloudy and cool. Yet in the hearts of the young believers, the sun was shining. After the morning worship service, they stood together in the courtyard of the house of prayer. The happy youths were quietly chatting among themselves. Eventually they began to walk toward the congregation leader's room. One of them knocked, and they entered on hearing, "Come in!" "Ah, Christ's young people, come in, come in!" the congregation leader greeted them. "And what do your hearts desire, brothers and sisters?" He asked the sexton to bring a few more chairs. "Now, young folks, are we going to continue in silence?" the leader asked, making an effort to help them relax. Leonid, the young people's spokesman, looked at the sexton, then at the congregation's leader, then at his young friends. They would have preferred to be alone with the clergyman and his assistant, Pankratov. It was common knowledge that the sexton was informing on the brothers to the KGB. "Brother," Leonid finally began, "the Holy Spirit has moved us to become one with the Lord. We are here to ask you to allow us to be baptized." "That is a good request. But you are well aware that according to the new regulations, a waiting period is required for all those wishing to be baptized. Only after you have passed our examination are we allowed to consent to your baptism," stated the leader of the congregation. "Will you discuss this matter with the government official in charge of the cults?" Valery, one of the young people, asked. "What else could we do?" asked the leader. "You know, since I applied for my baptism, I have had no peace at work. First they called me in for a talk with the Komsomol organization. Then I

was called before the party committee. Finally I was visited by a KGB representative, who hasn't left me alone since. Please baptize me so that I can talk about all of this in front of the entire congregation at the next meeting." "But brother, how can we tell the whole congregation about that? We don't want to make a big fuss about it. The authorities will hear of it! You must endure many trials when you wish to unite with the Lord. That is the way you will receive the crown of life!" "Then why didn't Philip make the Ethiopian endure a trial period, but instead baptized him immediately—as soon as he had professed his belief in Jesus Christ?" "You know, you are all still young, and you must grow further in the faith. Let me have your written requests for baptism. We will check them and let you know of our decision. Needless to say, there is no way I can avoid submitting the list to the authorities. Without their permission, we do not have the right to baptize you. If there is nothing else you wish, let us end this discussion. The authorities don't like to see you at worship services, but we will continue to allow you to come," the clergyman said without looking up at the young people. "We are interested in an answer to the following: is the submission of a written petition the work of God or the work of the devil?" Leonid asked. The congregation's leader remained silent. "And one more thing: is the two- to three-year trial period before the granting of permission for baptism the work of God or of the devil? "And yet another thing: why does our church have the rule to baptize only those twenty-five years of age or older? Is that the will of God or of the devil?" "Not all these things come from the devil," the leader began. "The authorities have been placed in their jobs by God. And the authorities have set up these limitations. Therefore, this is the will of God." "Are you saying that God has empowered the Soviet

apparatus to force its lofty will on Him?" The sexton began to move around uneasily in his chair. "I cannot allow you to criticize the regulations of the authorities," he finally blurted. "They are the servants of God, put there to help you. When the authorities have made the rules, it is up to us to obey them." The sexton was formerly a teacher. During the war, he had been captured by the Germans and had then served them as a volunteer. For this, he spent a long time in jail after his return, and was subsequently exiled to Kasachstan. Allegedly he had become a believer in the prison camp, but other believers reported that he had had some questionable relationships with the camp's Communist directors. The sexton acted as an informer even in the events just reported. The young people found out that he had repeatedly met with the KGB, and they even photographed him leaving his reports in certain mailboxes. In fact, they discovered the trysting place between the sexton and the KGB man. They showed their evidence to Pankratov, the minister's assistant, who had a good relationship with the youth group. He begged them not to divulge any of their findings to anyone, and to pray that the sexton would be led to penitence by God. The leader of the congregation also confided to his assistant that he had learned of the sexton's dealings. He had overheard a conversation between this man and the official in charge of cult matters at the state church office. The sexton had complained that he was not able to follow all of the youth activities and that the young people disappeared into their own secret conclaves after they had attended the adult worship services. He, an old man, certainly could not run after them. And they sometimes poked fun at him. Pankratov later urged the young people to win the sexton's heart with love instead of antagonizing him. ***

"We would like to speak about something confidential with the congregation's leader," Vera said to the sexton one day soon after the young people's request to be baptized. "And we want to speak to him alone. You shouldn't get so upset about that." Then, turning to the congregation's leader she continued, "We have to discuss something of great importance with you. Could you ask the sexton to leave the room?" "I have no secrets in front of my church's elders, " the leader answered. "But it has nothing to do with the sexton—er—the elder," said Vera, correcting herself. But by this time the entire group of young people had begun to snicker. The sexton turned red and scolded them, saying, "Why don't you get out, snotnose! I am a servant of God, and you have insulted me! You young birds shouldn't be here in the first place. We ought to chase you out of all of our gatherings!" Leonid whispered to Vera, "Apologize to him, quickly!" Vera was taken aback and said, "Oh brother, please accept my apologies!" She walked over to the sexton and kissed him on the cheek. The man was taken by surprise. Pankratov rose and said, "Come on, young folks, we're going to catch a breath of fresh air. We can make a couple of visits." Once safely removed from the house of prayer, he said, "Listen, friends, from now on don't talk to the congregation leader about baptism. We'll have a meeting in one of your homes soon, and we'll discuss the whole matter. In the meantime, not a word to anyone about that." The young people agreed to that, thanked him, and then went about visiting sick members of the congregation. *** The baptism took place at night, outside the city limits. It was rainy and dark, but the darkness protected them. Pankratov

performed the baptism on his own, risking his life. The members of the group had prepared themselves carefully. The examination of the candidates took place two weeks beforehand. More people desired baptism than had been anticipated. A number of members of the congregation, primarily young ones, took part in the examination of the candidates. Pankratov was there but he did not conduct the examination. The leader of the youth group did that. Around nine o'clock in the evening they gathered unnoticed at the city limits. This was where Leonid lived, and they hoped that nobody would surprise them there. The young folks who wanted to become one with the Lord stood in the hallway, each awaiting his or her turn to go into the room where the congregation members sat. Vera's turn came first. She was first asked how she came to accept the Lord. Then questions rained down upon her from all sides: What is the significance of baptism? What relationship do you have to the Holy Spirit? Who must be obeyed to a greater degree, God or man? Are you becoming part of the Body of Christ because of the Holy Spirit's intervention or because of pressure from a human being? The talks with the baptismal candidates proceeded without anxiety. The last question to them was asked by Pankratov. "If we Christians face persecution, as so many congregations are encountering, will you be prepared to love the Lord more than your own life? Even if it means that you must give your young life for Him?" "Yes!" responded clear young voices in the silence of the night. *** Everyone had passed the examination and was declared eligible for baptism. Pankratov knew well what sort of risk he was incurring. Should the authorities learn that he had baptized

twenty people—twenty young people—without their knowledge, his life would not end pleasantly. The young people carefully guarded the road to the lake chosen as the baptismal site. Their leader had placed lookouts along the outskirts of the city. If a police car headed in the direction of the baptismal ceremonies, the lookouts were to flash warning lights. An older member of the congregation shuttled the baptismal candidates back and forth in a van. He was able to keep this official van at his home because his employers were so satisfied with him. At the shore, the young people quickly changed their clothing for the baptism. Pankratov entered the water. A row of baptismal candidates followed him. They softly sang a folk song entitled "The Babbling Brook Will Not Betray Us." After the baptism was completed, they all came back to the shore and quickly put on their street clothes. By the light of a flashlight, Pankratov read a few verses from the Bible and said a few closing words to the young people. Then they knelt down to pray. Suddenly—a signal light from one of the guardposts! The young people and Pankratov hastily jumped into the van. The driver headed for a neighboring village without turning on his lights. From there they returned to their city. Within a few minutes several police motorcycles and two trucks—each carrying eight policemen—arrived at the lake. Men in civilian clothes paced along the shoreline. Blinding searchlights illuminated the entire lakeshore. But no trace of any human beings was found! Mot a sound could be heard except for snatches of a tune played on an accordion, which the wind carried in from a neighboring village. The policemen stood about in a cluster, not knowing what to do next. Next to them stood the shivering leader of the congregation. Evidently he had just been rousted out of his bed. He murmured to the sexton, who was also present, "What did you start here,

brother? In the middle of the night everybody has to get up and hustle out here—for nothing! Don't ever do that again or I'll tell tales about you!" The sexton was totally shattered. He knew perfectly well that a baptism had been planned for that night. He wanted so badly to get rid of Pankratov once and for all! He was sick of being treated with such derisive kindness, like some mentally deficient person. He had been absolutely certain that he would catch the young people in the act this evening! Now—what would people think of him? The sexton had been snooping under the window when the examination of candidates took place. Because the curtains were drawn, he was able to identify only one voice—that of the young people's leader. But the curtains hadn't been pulled shut with the greatest of care, and it was possible to look in through a crack at the top. Just as the sexton was looking for a suitable object to stand on, the building owner's dog had sunk its teeth into his ankle. The sexton cursed. He had given the dog a nice piece of beef, and this was the thanks he got! He had taken special care to make friends with the animal because he knew that this dog didn't bark, but only bit. The next day the sexton had called in sick and was not to be seen near the house of prayer. He had, however, been unable to prevent the events already set in motion. And now—after all that—this flop! If only he had been able to find out who would conduct the baptismal ceremony! The congregation leader smiled a secret smile. Because of pressure from the authorities, he would not dare to take the youths' side openly. He scrupulously followed all orders from the official in charge of cults and of the Soviet's supervising presbyter, too. But open informers like the sexton were anathema to the leader. In fact, he sincerely respected his firm and faithful brothers. But he didn't want another trip to the prison camp like that last one!

After a thorough investigation the police captain dismissed his men and drove to Pankratov's house with the congregation's leader and the sexton. When the police vehicle reached Pankratov's house, the captain ordered the leader to knock on the door. He tapped on Pankratov's window. For a long time there was no sign of life. Finally Pankratov leaned out sleepily. "Who's there?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "It's me, Alyosha! Would you believe that the police won't let anybody sleep in this town!" the leader began apologetically. More quietly, so the rest would not hear him, he said, "They had a report that you were conducting a baptism ceremony ten minutes ago." "You can see, brother, that you've gotten me up out of bed. Say good night to all these nice people for me!" Pankratov called out. He closed his window and lay down to sleep. The police official made a report which indicated that the accused person had been found at home and that there undoubtedly had been a misunderstanding. *** After their baptism the young people continued to come to the Sunday services as usual. The next Sunday they noticed that the sexton had a very obvious limp. But this didn't prevent him from sneaking about in the churchyard and suspiciously observing the young folks. One young woman asked, "Leonid, why is our sexton limping like that?" "I don't know. Why don't you ask him?" At that point, the sexton sat down on Leonid's other side. Leonid looked at him and asked, "Brother, you are clearly not well. Is there any way we could help you?" "Thank you, I need no help. I tried to climb up to my roof and fell. So my leg and my back hurt me." At this point, Pankratov entered and asked the sexton to come to the adjacent room.

"Say, brother, what's the matter with you all of a sudden? You're limping!" Then he stepped around and looked at the sexton from behind. "Your trousers are torn, too!" Just as the sexton was about to give his answer, a woman's voice was heard screaming, "Where is he, that good-for-nothing! I'll tell you what this miserable heap has been doing! He steals our meat and makes noise all night long!" The sexton recoiled and limped to the congregation leader's room as quickly as he could, screaming at his wife, "What are you up to, you clucking chicken?" This only caused the chunky old lady to continue her tirade. The leader was barely able to pacify her. Then he asked Pankratov to look into the situation and went into the prayer room with the elders. The pale sexton stood in the corner while his wife's looks drilled through him. Pankratov started by saying, "Calm yourself, citizen!" He had his suspicions, of course, and was ready to listen to her story. "Tell me what happened at your home, won't you?" he urged. The sexton's wife sat down and told her tale. Two weeks earlier, when she was getting ready to make some borscht, the meat for it had apparently vanished from her icebox. Her husband had vanished too! Much later, in the middle of the night, her husband had reappeared, limping and disheveled, his trousers torn. He had begged her not to ask him any questions until she had put some iodine on his wound. He had claimed that he had gone off on an errand on behalf of the congregation's leader. But who would believe that? However, she did believe that a dog had bitten him—his trousers looked it! The following day, someone from government intelligence had come by and he and the sexton had sat together whispering for a long time. After that conversation the sexton had given his wife a hundred rubles. The sexton couldn't contain himself any longer when he heard this, and started for his wife. But she maneuvered him back into his corner and continued her accusations. "And today I wanted to make stuffed cabbage. I got out my

meat grinder, reached for the beef in the icebox—and it was gone! The faker had given it to his beloved girlfriend again!" "Don't say that, Eufrosinya Semyonova!" Pankratov broke in. "That he certainly did not do! Much more likely, a dog would not let itself be bribed. So your husband decided to pay the animal back—with a piece of poisoned meat! Isn't that what happened?" he asked the sexton, who merely nodded silently. Pankratov turned back to the sexton's wife. "So calm down now. Go home. You'll get the meat back. Certainly your husband has no 'girlfriend'; I can assure you of that." The assistant clergyman's firm voice reassured the woman. She apologized profusely, begging everyone's pardon for disturbing the congregation's peace. Then she allowed Pankratov to show her the way out. She obviously could not fathom what motivated her husband, and from where he had received such large amounts of money. Once back in the room with the sexton, Pankratov asked him, "Have you been doing it for long, brother?" "Doing what?" came the innocent reply. "Spying? Informing?" "Me—an informer?" "It's all right, brother. Whose dog bit you, by the way? Was it Leonid's animal?" The sexton looked at him darkly and said nothing. "I don't recommend that you execute the animal! How could it know that you are a KGB informer? If you poison the dog, I'll tell everyone in the congregation. And— may I ask you to stop sneaking around and reporting our activities? It's only going to get you in deeper trouble. Do you really want to benefit from someone else's misfortune? After all, you and I know that the atheists despise those who inform on their brothers. If you have something against me, act quickly! I baptized the young people. And I have led the young people's worship services. "Why don't you repent, my beloved brother? Turn away from these evil works, or you will be lost," Pankratov concluded sadly and turned away to look out the window.

*** At the instigation of the supervisor of the cults, Pankratov and the young believers were excluded from the congregation as punishment for violating the regulations of the all-Soviet Evangelical Baptists. So Pankratov founded a new congregation with the young people. They met regularly in the homes of various members until the young people's leader and Pankratov were arrested and sentenced to five years at hard labor.

6. A SHEPHERD TO THE ORTHODOX Proshin looked pensively around the Siberian village. Its surrounding pine forests made it look like a fairytale village. This was where he was born and where he went to school. But how long ago that was! The children were playing ball, screaming in delight. Proshin walked toward the village center, observing everything. Here a large building rose above all the others. He stepped closer and read the sign: District Headquarters, Communist Party of the USSR. He laughed softly, keeping his thoughts to himself as he turned into a narrow side street. Somewhere along here the church had been located. His heart skipped a beat as he approached the site where it had stood. Was it still there? Yes, God Almighty, there it was! His heart jumped into his throat. He stopped, looked, recognized the church again, but not precisely as he remembered it. So many years have passed, and yet there you stand, hale and hearty! The handsome cast-iron fence has protected you from the world's influx! This was his holiest of holies; in this church he had begun his duties before entering the academy. But what was this? A group of Communist Pioneers, wearing their red scarves, was marching into the churchyard, singing. Were they marching into the church? Do Pioneers go to church these days? Who knows-things can change in thirty years! A flock of pigeons fluttered about the churchyard. An old man was feeding them. Proshin's gaze took in the handsome wooden structure again —the place where he had dedicated his life to God. The writings of Solovyov the philosopher had influenced him, and the Bible had shown him the way here, into the church. Tears filled his eyes unexpectedly. And there, in the old park back there, he had walked with his bride-to-be, Dasha. "Where are you, Dasha?" he said pensively.

"Did you call me, grandpa?" He shuddered and opened his eyes. A small girl wearing a red scarf stood in front of him and looked at him inquisitively. He looked at the little school girl, thunderstruck; he recognized the not-yet-fully formed lines of that face! Did she call him"grandpa"? He smiled, remembering that he had a beard. "Is your name Dasha?" he inquired. "Yes," the girl replied, pushing some stray hairs off her forehead. "Aren't you from here?" "I was born in this village and brought up here. But now it's been thirty years since I was last here. I'm visiting here and remembering the old days. I've got to go in there, Dasha." "It's too late, grandpa. The film's begun already. You'll have to wait for the evening show." "What film? What are you saying?" "This is the palace of culture. A Tarzan movie has been running here for several days. It's really exciting!" she explained. Then she added, "It's an American film!" So that was what had become of the church. He sighed deeply. Little Dasha stole away. Proshin looked up. No bells in the tower. No cross. Just a red flag! "Why are you standing around here like this, my friend?" An old man interrupted Proshin's musings. "Listen, grandpa, has this palace of culture been around for long?" Proshin asked. The old man laughed. "It's been like this for twenty-five years, give or take a couple. When they arrested Proshin in Leningrad many years ago, they sent the head of this church to another congregation; and our 'little mother' was closed down. Five years after that they turned it into a club. I was baptized here as a child. And I've been the sexton here for nearly fifty years. Of course, these days I'm caretaker of the club. And I have to feed the pigeons." Proshin could not remember how his feet carried him away

from the yard of his former church. Mechanically he walked the streets. Suddenly he froze as he saw it before him: Dasha's house! He had been drawn to it by a superhuman force. But what if she doesn't recognize me? What if she's married? These were the warnings his senses gave him, but his heart carried him forward. He couldn't stop himself. The wooden house, warped with age, looked at the town out of old, half-blind windows. He knocked at the gate. Someone opened it. It was little Dasha from the churchyard! "You're looking for our house, grandpa?" "Would you tell me, little girl—some people named Lukins used to live here. Do you know where they are now?" "Right here, just as before. But only my mother has the name Lukins. My father is called Popov," the little girl explained, letting the old man walk into the front yard. He waited as she called out to her mother, "Mama, we have a visitor!" Proshin trembled. Will she remember me? So she had married after all! He remembered her standing before him as she said to him when he left, "Alyosha, I will wait for you my whole life! I will remain true to you—and above all, to God—with body and soul!" And there she came! Her walk was still the same. Her eyes were blue, but they looked weary. The face was full of lines, but so trusting. "Hello! Why don't you come in? My husband is not at home. He is still at work. Please step inside, won't you?" They walked up a couple of steps and into the foyer. Oh, her voice; only she could speak so melodiously. She had had the best voice in the church choir—not a loud voice, but a very melodic voice which had brought him particular pleasure. Now as she washed her hands in the entranceway he asked with great effort, "Dasha, you don't recognize me?" She looked up at him uncomprehendingly and shook her head. "Have I changed that much? I am Alyoshka Proshin!"

She clapped her wet hands together and threw her arms about him. She cried for a long time while his calloused hands stroked her hair. His heart was in an uproar. Finally she pulled herself together and said to him, "Alyosha, I am not Dasha. I am Lena. You used to confuse the two of us long ago; don't you remember? But—Dasha died a month ago!" So this was Dasha's twin sister. And his Dasha was dead! Proshin sank down on an ottoman and buried his face in his hands. He was too late by a mere month! Thoughts chased each other in his mind. About two months ago, the prison camp commandant had called him in and inquired about his past and about the reason for his imprisonment. Then he had stated, "Perhaps in a month or two they'll let you go." Proshin had wondered why. No answer had been given to him. So he had left the prison zone and walked away, free after thirty years in prisons and prison camps. Why? Conversations came back to him—a promise he had once given to some priests who were in the same camp. And the archbishop's words rushed back into his mind: "Alexey, we will pray for you, that God may free you. Help the true believers keep their faith!" Prison had soon exhausted the old archbishop's strength, and before long the confessor of the young Alexey had been carried out of the camp. That was many years ago. The veil which the lethargy of camp imprisonment left over everything had obscured these memories. Proshin had an easier time remembering things which occurred thirty years ago or even longer. During the years of imprisonment he had lived vividly through every detail of those events, bad as well as good. For the Christian, prison was a place of purification. The past became the present; all errors were suffered through again. Errors, sins—leading to wisdom and

patience. The prisoner was prepared for the days ahead, too; Proshin had received his direction for the future there. He had made a promise to God and to his brothers who had died at Kolyma: to minister to the scattered groups of Christians throughout Russia. Yet, involuntarily, as he had become used to the idea of being free, he had returned to the place where the thread of his life had been abruptly torn—the academy. Dasha. If he had been released one month earlier he could have seen her again! It wasn't a question of thirty years—it was a question of thirty days! He sighed and put his hands to his head again. Lena sat next to him, crying softly. She took his hand. Her eyes expressed so much sympathy that he could not restrain himself any longer and began to sob aloud. He will feel better if he cries, she thought, stroking his grey hair which had not fully grown back after having been shaved off in camp. At fifty-five, he wept like this for the first time, as only a man could cry. The elderly Mrs. Lukins came slowly out of the bedroom. She stepped over to Proshin, lifted his face up with her workworn hands, and held him close to her. " Alyoshenka, Alexey! Don't cry, my son! You're a big boy now! Have courage. I can understand it well. You must weep away thirty years' sorrow and forget it. Forget it for evermore, my boy." Then after a short time: "Now calm yourself and go to Dasha's grave with little Dasha. Then you will be at peace again." He did, in fact, become calmer. He felt safe in the company of these two women whom he trusted. Obediently he washed his face, took the little girl's hand and followed her to the cemetery. Lena remained at home with her mother to prepare the evening meal. In subsequent days Proshin had the women tell him everything they knew about his Dasha. He found out that she had acted as a paramedic, taking care of the health needs of the

village. The local teacher had begun to pay court to her, with serious intentions toward her. She had rejected his proposal for marriage, declaring herself to be bound to her Alyosha. Because of this the teacher had told the state security office about Dasha's relationship with the revolutionary Proshin. She had been arrested. After her release from prison camp, her health had been gone, never to be regained. Proshin remained with the Popov family for about a month. During those weeks a revolution took place in the heart of little Dasha. She learned from the conversations why her Uncle Alyosha had spent thirty years in prison, and why her Aunt Dasha had spent several years there too. Young Dasha removed her red scarf. She would never again wear the emblem of the Pioneers. She would become like her Aunt Dasha and bring joy to her Uncle Alyosha! *** In Tomsk Proshin located an old friend from his prison camp days in Kolyma. Vasya Toskin served as preacher in a Baptist congregation. The reunion was joyful; the friend crushed Alyosha in a lengthy bear hug. After dinner the two retreated to Vasya's room and talked all night long. In the morning Vasya questioned his guest about his plans for the future. Proshin replied, after a few moments' reflection, "You know that I am, after all, a priest in the True Orthodox Church. The adherents of this church ordained me as a bishop in my camp days. They were certain that I would be released, and I promised them that I would revive the branches of the True Orthodox Church—that I would comfort, encourage and strengthen their belief in the gospel." Seeing Vasya's skeptical expression, Proshin laughed and said, "I see, I see. You are not satisfied. I can remember your passionate diatribes against our icons, our crucifixes and many other things, including gifts of grace that were secured by human

merit. It is indeed difficult to judge just how far we have removed ourselves from the lives of the apostles. I can recall your saying. "That's what the Bible is for.' Yes, it's true, Orthodoxy has become far removed from the teachings of the apostles. But someone, somewhere, has to go to those believers now and bring the living word of Christ to them. I have studied at the academy and spent thirty years in jail along with the fathers of our church. You will admit, too, that the Baptist movement also does not follow Christ perfectly. You have a number of extra-biblical elements in your teachings, especially in the holidays you celebrate. The time is here to get some sense into us—instead of debating forever—and to carry the vital stream of Christian love to the Russian people. "So please don't be upset, Vasya. Why don't you bring the living Christ—and not just one manifestation of Him—into the evangelical church? And I will seek out the lost sheep of Orthodoxy, in all the places where those people need comfort and nurture. In your pride, you may look down on us, but you know that our people need your humility and your love. Then they will be open to you and will listen to your message from Christ. I know you well, after all, from those years in prison. Now you're raising your eyebrows at me when I speak to you about my calling. Forgive, dear brother, forgive!" Proshin concluded. And he picked Vasya up bodily and carried him around the whole room! "You bear of a man! Despite thirty years in prison camps the atheists have failed to drain you of your strength!" Vasya shouted, extricating himself from Proshin's bear hug. The early rays of dawn were streaking the sky when the Baptist preacher and the bishop of the True Orthodox Church knelt down to pray together. Vasya's wife, Lida, looked in and then joined them in prayer. Loud knocking on the outer door interrupted their devotions. Lida tiptoed silently to the door, looked through the peephole and ran back.

Trembling, she said, "It's the police!" Proshin smiled guiltily. The police had come because of him. Vasya had learned in prison that it was always necessary to have an emergency exit about which no one knew. He had worked on this for two years. Now he motioned to his wife, asking her to take Alexey to the cellar and to show him the secret exit. Lida took the guest by the hand and pulled him away. By this time, the police had stopped knocking on the door and proceeded to try to break it down. But it was made of oak reinforced with steel on the inside. "Where is Proshin?" was the first question the police captain asked. The rest of the police went about searching the house without introducing themselves to its owner. "Who is this Proshin?" asked Vasya innocently, urging the captain to come into the living room. He motioned for him to sit down in one of the two easy chairs. "You're starting the same way as you did in the past! You've learned nothing from your experiences. It is known to us that Proshin spent the night with you. Where is he?" Vasya smiled. "I cannot understand what you could mean by all this. You are making references to my past. But I have been rehabilitated and am getting an invalid's pension. If you are looking for someone named Proshin, I can't help you." Vasya knew only Proshin's Christian name; he had tried never to learn his family name. A lieutenant came into the room. "Well," asked the captain, "did you look everywhere?" The lieutenant nodded. Vasya got up and looked at his workroom, the children's room and the bedroom. "Listen, captain," he protested loudly, "did you look for Proshin inside the drawers?" He got out his camera and began to try to photograph the "work" the police had done. But the captain tore the camera from Vasya's hands and smashed it against the doorpost with all his might. "Don't play

games with me, Toskin. If twenty years in prison were not enough for you, we can finish you off," he said, threatening. "Your days are gone, captain. The new regime has guaranteed that the past will never return," countered Vasya. "You are naive, Toskin," the officer grinned arrogantly. "Politics seem to be hard for you to understand. We must still use the same methods the old government used against religion, even though those methods may have been overdone. For the time being, it is convenient for us to pretend to be friends of you believers. It helps us with our foreign policy. But as soon as we cease to have need of you, and if you don't follow our edicts, we will simply eradicate you. The day is coming when we will preach communism, not Christianity, from your pulpits!" "Better to be dead than for that to happen." Vasya responded. The birds celebrated the day with merry chirping. Tall pines and tamarack trees surrounded Proshin. Overwhelmed by all this, he looked at the blue sky above the treetops. He felt small and unimportant among God's creations in this enormous forest. He knelt down to pray, thanked the Lord for his salvation, and then resumed his rapid walking. Toward evening, he heard dogs barking. He had reached the town of Skopino, which was encircled by the Taiga forest. Proshin walked to the first house near the clearing as if he had once been at home there. He knocked on the garden gate. A young girl let him in. "Is this where the children of Abraham live?" he asked. The girl smiled happily and nodded. She led him into the house. No one was home. Proshin introduced himself to the girl. Her name was Olya. "Olya, I've got to find the brothers in the True Orthodox Church. Which ones are still alive and out of prison? Is Alexander out?" Olya shook her head. "Only Stepan is still free, and he, too, is in hiding from the authorities. They've been tracking him for a long time, but God has protected him so far. I'm afraid it will be

dangerous for you to seek him out." "To associate with me isn't exactly without its dangers, Olya. The authorities are on my trail, too. But I absolutely must see Stepan. It is vital. Does he conduct your worship services?" "Yes," Olya answered. "There are twenty-five of us Orthodox people, along with the former nuns." Proshin stepped in front of the icon in the corner and said a prayer. Then he sat down to eat at the table. Olya had brought him all kinds of food. She vanished while he was eating. After sunset she returned with a man who looked to be no older than forty. It was Stepan. He made the sign of the cross in front of the icons. Only then did he greet Proshin, kissing him three times according to Russian custom. "I have been awaiting you. The Popovs let me know that you wanted to come to this region," said Stepan, and sat next to his bishop. "Stepan," said Proshin with some anxiety, "where and how could we ordain some brothers to holy orders?" "Why are you in such a hurry?" "I'm being pursued by the authorities, and I'm afraid I won't be able to stay a free man much longer. We've got to do this thing soon. It is written, of course, that one should never lay hands on anyone in haste. But you understand, I'm sure. We are not living in quiet times these days. And as long as we are free, the Lord has given us the duty of caring for those in whom the faith still glows. I've learned that you hide in the woods and that you care only for this small flock here. You must take up a broader, larger task." "Please speak to the other believers, " Stepan said. "Do it tomorrow. There is a festival ahead. Will you conduct the services tomorrow?" Proshin reflected with sadness on the fact that it had been thirty years since he officiated during a normal liturgical occasion. He wasn't even sure whether he could do so any longer! But of course he had to serve the Lord again, and this was the

place. *** Thirty Orthodox believers joined together at the forester's house. It was the local congregation and some relatives of the forester, who was celebrating his birthday. Proshin conducted the liturgy precisely according to the rules of the True Orthodox Church. This generated joyous excitement among those present. It had been such a long time since they had experienced this! It had been decided that all believers who were present should celebrate this occasion together in community. During the service Proshin ordained two members of the community to holy orders. Afterward all the people went into the adjacent room and sat together at along table, which had been set festively in honor of the forester's birthday. After a while Proshin withdrew to consult with the two new priests. Just when the festivities were in full swing, the forester's son galloped in on one of the horses. He reported that two cars filled with policemen were on their way from the district capital. He had been positioned to give the alarm just in case such a situation occurred. Unfortunately he had not been able to give an earlier warning. Before long the sound of car engines could be heard. The host rushed into the room where Proshin was talking with the priests he had just ordained. He cried, "The police are here!" Proshin quickly executed his plan. "Hurry, brother, delay the police while I remove my beard. In the meantime ask the rest of the people to start singing folk songs. Don't be afraid! Tell the police that you are merely celebrating your birthday. Then offer the officers a glass of wine —I don't have to tell you what you should do next." The forester had little enough to do with policemen. After they had encircled the property they began by searching the outer buildings, of which there were several. Only after that did two

officers reach the main building. The forester received them with elaborate politeness. He had put several glasses on a tray, along with a bottle of wine. "Dear comrades, I am so glad that here in our Soviet Union we experience equality and brotherhood! I am very flattered that you should honor my birthday celebration with your attendance. You did miss the beginning, so now you will have to drink a penalty round!" He filled two wineglasses and offered them to the two officers. They looked at each other, weighing the situation carefully. Then they saw the long table with its celebrating family members. Someone called out, "Hurray for the Soviet police! Here's to the penalty round!" The police had often been at the forester's preserve before in order to hunt game and wild fowl. Of course they were allowed to shoot protected animals, too. The forester had closed his eyes to that, and had raised no protest when the policemen violated the rules and poached in the forest. After all, the police are here to protect me, he had said to himself. And there had been previous occasions when these policemen were so drunk in his house that they could not remember where they were. Over the years the police had begun to feel right at home in the forester's house. Only this time it did not seem as if they were there to poach—at least not for wild animals. They were terribly serious—aloof and distant—flaunting their official roles. But this time the man of the house, who so seldom had more than just a little to drink, appeared to be totally drunk. The tray seemed about to slide out of his hands. He could barely stand up. The guests sang tipsily and out of tune. Suddenly the forester fell forward. The police major barely caught the tray before it crashed to the floor. He looked at his companion officer one more time, then handed him a glass, took the other one, and in one swallow downed it all. Admiring cries from the people at the table caused the major to fill a third glass and offer it to the lieutenant who was just entering the room.

Proshin had shaved off his beard in a hurry. Then he changed clothes and mingled with the other guests. He had done all this even before the officers reached the main house. Now, with great gusto, he was eating homemade sausage and drinking blackcurrant brandy between bites. He kept his head down close to the plate from which he was eating. Most of the believers did not recognize him. Hardly anyone took notice of him, so much had he changed his appearance. The rest of the police collected at the door. They had turned every corner of every building upside down. They had pierced every bale of hay with metal prongs. Proshin was nowhere to be found, and he was certainly not in the dining room. The police finally withdrew into the courtyard, after carefully setting the forester down on a bench. Twenty minutes later the police vanished from the scene. Suddenly the drunken forester was sober again. Proshin rose and said, "Thank you, brothers, for your help." The people looked at him in disbelief. One man asked him incredulously, "Father Alexey?" Proshin smiled. "In person, children! I thank God that He again saved me from the hands of the Antichrist. I thank you, too. I am happy that some of you prayed for me during this moment which was so dangerous for me. And now, children, I must hurry onward. I don't know whether we will ever see each other again. That is in the hands of God. My heart tells me that my end is not too far off. I have promised my dead fellow believers, who were the fathers of our faith, to strengthen the true believers of our country in their belief and in their love for each other. My authority, which comes from God, is to punish those with little faith, those who complain, those who are disobedient toward God, and those who do not love their neighbors. Please carry your load without protesting, and serve the Lord in purity and holiness. I beg you urgently, brothers and sisters, to love one another. For soon the Lord will come to bring His people to His house. Now I say to your priests: care for these sheep of Christ's

flock in constancy and with love. If you are arrested, let other Spirit-filled men be called to this task." The believers had listened raptly. Proshin made the sign of the cross, blessed those at the table, and was about to leave. But the people could not allow their bishop to leave so easily. So Proshin, flanked by the two newly ordained priests, stood by the door, and one believer after another came to him to receive his personal blessing. Then Proshin and the forester left the house and rode off through the forest. When they left, the good spirits of the group departed too. The next morning the forester was arrested. The newly ordained priests were able to go into hiding. Four months later the court gave the forester a five-year sentence. His possessions were confiscated. His family moved away. *** The forester's imprisonment upset Proshin terribly. He judged himself to be responsible. For this reason he discontinued his mission for a time and withdrew to prayer and fasting. Some of his fellow believers in prison had told him of a secret hiding place, and he set out to find it. He was able to make his way to the Ural mountains without being molested. Once there he searched the forest for certain markings. He found them after a week's relentless search. The oak tree under which the secret cell was located bore the almost invisible mark of a cross. A pile of branches lay next to the oak. Proshin moved the branches to one side and felt around on the ground until he found the wooden plug he was looking for. When he pulled it gingerly out of the earth, he found a small chain attached to it. He tugged at it gently. A small aperture in the ground became visible close to the oak tree. Proshin let himself slide down into it without being at all afraid. He lit a match and discovered a fairly roomy underground cavern. A second match

disclosed a niche with candles. With a start he remembered that the small entrance was still open to the outside. He pulled the chain quickly and the hidden entrance closed. On his right Proshin saw a bunk made out of two wooden boards and covered with loose hay. On the other side of the chamber he noticed several baskets and some willow branches. He smiled at the thought that he would have to learn this new trade—weaving baskets—in order to support himself. He continued his search and discovered a large metal box. It was locked. But he found the key to the box after a long and diligent search. To his utter amazement Proshin found that the metal box contained two Bibles which had been hand-copied in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Later he would give them to a friend for safekeeping. For the time being Proshin embarked on a close study of these Bibles, written in the old Slavonic, a language Proshin had mastered. Proshin remained in this retreat for two months. Late that autumn he again embarked on his mission to the believers. Not until spring did he finally return to his underground hiding place. He had built a rough table for himself and began to do a good deal of writing. Letters which had been written to him reached him through the Popovs, whom he met once a month in order to receive messages addressed to him. *** After some time, Proshin arrived in Altaj, contacted an old friend, and asked him to summon a number of believing Christians from a list which he supplied. Eventually these people gathered somewhere in western Siberia. First Proshin spoke to each one of them alone. Later he gave a speech to the assembled group. "Brothers," he began, "God has given me to understand that He will be calling me home soon. I have been saying this for five

years, but now I know that my hour is approaching. It appears that I left my health behind me in prison. The Lord has now chosen greater gifts for me than all the treasures earth could provide. "These are difficult times which we must go through, brothers! Yet the lackeys of the Antichrist have not found a way to catch me. This is because the prayers of the church fathers have dwelt upon me. And so I have accomplished that which I was given to do. For a full thirty years in prison I had hoped to be allowed to visit with the Christians across Russia. The Lord has answered the prayers of the holy ones. "I have prayed for the freedom of all Christians for as long as I can recall. Those who never got to see freedom were lifted up by the hope that better days would come for those who remained true to the Lord. These better days have already come for many; they are already in eternal joy. "But many Christians are encountering comfortable days here on earth because they choose to accommodate themselves to the lackeys of the Antichrist. Sad to say, they will encounter evil days in eternity. You, my brothers, strengthen each other in the holy faith, and abide in Christ's love. Do not turn away from Christ's true word, not even one step! Depend only on Christ himself. Pray that all Orthodox believers will burn with love for the Lord, and that all Russian people will thirst for His truth! Believe this: the Russian people will yet live under the freedom of the gospel. "Put your hope in the power and might of God. In such hope there can be no disappointment. Do not fear those who kill the body. The devil will drown in the spilt blood of our people. Vengeance comes soon! Innocent blood screams for retribution. God is hurrying to our aid. "They will throw you into dungeons. They will kill. They will take away your children. But fear not, God is with you. And with God even hell becomes paradise. I have experienced this, and I hold before you Christ's command to love one another so

that you will abide in faith, in hope and in love. Do not desert the flock of our Lord Jesus Christ. Remain true to it! Love the people more than you love your own life. Russia has fallen prey to a stupendous error, an enormous misjudgement. And you will help its people if you spread Christ's light among them!" Proshin gave all of them his blessing and prayed with them one more time. In the morning he had vanished. *** He appeared at the Popovs' one more time to say his goodbyes to Lena and Pyotr, as well as to little Dasha. To the little girl he conveyed his whole life's story. Her heart became the repository for his legacy in all its details. And as her Uncle Alyosha had taught her to do, she too served the Lord Christ.

7. PRISON CAMP The prison on Dostoyevsky Street in the city of X was made up of several dingy buildings. But the windows were remarkably large for prison windows, and had simple iron gratings instead of the customary wooden shutters. This was because in the days of the Czarina Catherine II the state did not want to deprive its prisoners of the light of the sun. Kostya was standing at the window, looking out yearningly. "Halt! Who is there?" "Change of the guard!" "Guard detail—at ease! Commander of the guard— step over here!" The changing of the guard woke Kostya from his reverie. He longed for his seven children. He would have preferred to be alone in his prayers. But where could he do that? His cell was overcrowded. The three prisoners—Kostya, Trofim, and Pyotr— had been moved to cell number two from number fifty. Trofim sat on one cot, his head lowered; Pyotr was talking to another prisoner. In the part of the room which was not visible through the peephole, two prisoners were playing cards. Next to them, another prisoner told his companions of his adventures as a pickpocket. Kostya turned to the window again. "Lord, I do so wish to be free...." "Hey, get away from that hole. Where are you staring?" Kostya was shaken. A guard was standing in the doorway with a bunch of keys in his hand. "I was looking at the sky, citizen natchalnik," Kostya explained, adding sheepishly, "It's blue." "Blue? So what! Our Sputniks up there won't let that God of yours sleep anymore! Come on! Away from the window!" Kostya walked back to his cot and sat down next to Trofim. The guard ignored the other prisoners and jumped on the

prisoners hidden in the corner. "Hand the cards over!" he screamed to Malysh. "What kind of cards? I don't have any cards!" the man said innocently. Unimpressed by this, the guard ordered Malysh to take off his clothes. The search proved to be futile. So he asked all the other prisoners to disrobe. All of them carefully watched the guard, fascinated by what was happening. Aha—someone quickly slipped the pack of cards into the guard's pocket! Soon a second guard came to the first one's aid. Half an hour later a third one came in as a reinforcement. Now a general search began. First all the prisoners were driven into one corner while the guards searched every nook and cranny of the cell. Then they again thoroughly searched each prisoner. No cards were found! So the guards, cursing, left the cell. The prisoners had had their fun and began to talk softly to each other. In less than an hour it was time for the evening check. The duty officer entered the cell and counted the inmates. Then they left, the relief guards in front, the duty officer behind them. During that instant, someone reached into the guard's pocket and extricated a little package. The guard noticed nothing. The door was locked again. Malysh grinned as he opened the little package; they could play cards again! Just before the little trick of retrieving the cards the prisoners who were to be transported elsewhere were told about it. The three "brothers" were among those who would be leaving. *** They were ordered to come out of the cells, one at a time. The guard called out each man's name. The prisoner was to reply, giving his first name, family name, year of birth, paragraph under which he had been convicted, what sentence had been given him, and when he had begun serving his sentence.

They were escorted to the prison yard, where another "Black Maria" with its convoy of soldiers was waiting. More reporting of one's identity. After all the delays, the formalities were over. The prisoners were finally ordered inside the prison van. They had all suffered from the frosty air outside. So the prisoners rushed into the van, pushing and shoving to get the few seats which were available. Most of them would have to stand. The van began to move. Goodbye, hotel of those betrayed by fate! Your walls have seen many witnesses to Christ. No one knows what thoughts Dostoyevsky had when he was exiled here. Liberty—equality—fraternity.... What a paradox: "big brother" eats steak and washes it down with wine—while "little brother" steals a lamb from the herd of his kholkhoz so his grandchild won't be hungry, and gets three years behind bars for his trouble. There's something wrong with your ideology, brothers. Pyotr sighed heavily and decided to drop these speculations. Each time the van ran over a pothole during the journey, the men who were standing pressed against Pyotr's leg so much that he could not help groaning in pain. But they finally reached a smoother highway. The cursing of the driver stopped. Pyotr thought back to his trial. One scene after another passed before his mind's eye. A month ago, after the verdict was announced, the judge looked pensively at the sentenced men. There was not the slightest indication of sorrow or regret on the face of any of the believers. Trofim and Kostya had fasted during the trial and looked almost exhausted. Finally the judge left the hall, an enormous auditorium in the city's palace of culture. Police encircled the prisoners seated on the first row. Pyotr's sister, tears streaming down her face, reached over a policeman's shoulder and gave her hand to Pyotr. As Pyotr pressed her hand a police sergeant screamed, "Come on, put handcuffs on this pig!" Me? —a pig? Pyotr thought, rather shocked. Well, that doesn't worry me. Even Jesus was considered an evildoer.

The handcuffs pressed Pyotr's wrists together painfully. But he smiled at his sister, who at that time was not yet a believer. "Don't cry! Everything will turn out all right," he said to her. It was difficult to put on a cheerful face. His arms were twisted painfully behind his back and the handcuffs tightened with the slightest movement. The three sentenced men were led outside the building, where a "Black Maria" waited. The van was completely surrounded by people. Out in the front row were the faces of trusted friends. Go in peace, dear friends; remember us and pray for us, Pyotr thought. The police formed a corridor for the passage of the condemned men from the palace of culture to the van, where they were hurriedly pushed inside. Pyotr fell as he climbed in; the brothers helped him get up again. The cold, steel handcuffs made his fingers feel numb as they continued to tighten with each movement. What was that? A song? A Christian melody right in front of the atheistic building supposed to be a substitute for a church? Yes, indeed! The words were: "The hour of parting has sounded / It's time to part, you must leave / We must now say goodbye / Go in peace, awaiting a happy return." The crowd—led by the Christian young people singing their song—pushed the policemen back from the "Black Maria." Pyotr was suddenly totally overcome and the tears began to flow. He was glad for the darkness of the van. But those handcuffs! No one in the Soviet schools he attended had prepared him for such an instrument of torture. He could no longer feel his hands at all. The "Black Maria" began to roll. Everyone waved. Pyotr groaned in pain as he tried to move his hands. The last stanza of the song hung in the air as they departed: "And if we should not see each other again in this life / We still say, 'we'll see each other again' / One day in eternity when we are transfigured."

A policeman noticed how much the handcuffs hurt Pyotr and told the sergeant, "Why don't you take off his handcuffs? There's no sense in hurting him like this! And couldn't you have put on the simple kind? These cuffs are pinching his hands off!" All this had taken place a month ago. *** The "Black Maria" came to a halt. They had reached their destination. The complement of guards that accompanied them jumped off. About ten minutes later, the prisoners were led out of the van and into a guardhouse built of red bricks and surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped wooden fence. The sergeant pulled out the believers' files, put them under his arm and motioned them to follow him. They looked around inquisitively. This was where they were to serve their terms. The inner yard was encircled by a board fence. Behind the fence was probably the work area. An unpleasant-smelling mountain of skins was visible above the fence. Some of the prisoners looked down from this mound and through the steel gate, curious about the new arrivals. On the right there was a large factory building with a tall smokestack, then another board fence and steel gate. "Well," said the camp commandant, a lieutenant colonel, "it is a great honor for me to welcome to my camp people who actually believe in God. It is our responsibility, and it is heavy on our consciences, to educate you to change your beliefs. I must therefore warn you not to spread religious propaganda. This will bring you solitary confinement." "But we are allowed to pray, citizen natchalnik?" Pyotr interrupted the lieutenant colonel. The commandant looked at him in amazement over the rim of his glasses. "Hmm, this unweaned child wants to pray 'Our father, who art in heaven,...' " he began mockingly. After this he continued, "That's all right. But you must pray so that the others do not see you, which means you cannot do

what some people do—pray standing by the table before every meal, kneeling down three times a day between the rows of beds, or on top of the cots. That you cannot do, my friends. That would provoke many questions among the prisoners about God and about your beliefs, and that is propaganda. For that I will punish you." "How do you know we will behave that way?" Kostya asked. "I've already got one Pentecostal in this place. Other prisoners go to him with their troubles and sorrows, as if he were some kind of God. One prisoner has already become his disciple. I would have punished the man long ago, but there isn't another bricklayer like him. But if you do things like that, you will land in special detention." Clearly we must work so hard that we cannot be replaced as workers. Then the supervisor will let us pray and preach and won't put us into solitary. That's a first-rate inducement for quality labor and for evangelizing. That way the wolves aren't hungry and the sheep stay well, Kostya thought. "I thank you, citizen natchalnik, for the good testimony to the believer and for his example," Trofim said. The lieutenant colonel stared at him uncomprehendingly and continued his lecture. "The camp is run the following way. Everyone may have visitors for four hours once every three months, plus a personal visit of up to three days once each year. I have the power to let you have three days or just one; this depends on your behavior. If you do good work, don't make propaganda and study atheistic literature.... "I happen to have a good political officer in this camp, and efficient section leaders," he continued. "They will quickly straighten you out. In other words, if you obey all the orders I've given you and do good work, I will allow you up to three visiting days without work. Understood?" "Almost," said Kostya. Smiling, the lieutenant colonel pressed a bell. A guard

arrived. "Put the boy into section five. Tell the lieutenant to put him into the twenty-third brigade. And these two into the third and eighth sections. I don't care which one goes where." The guard responded, "Yes, sir!" and took them into the residential barracks. First he delivered Pyotr to the lieutenant in charge of the fifth section; then he gestured to the other two to follow him. Trofim winked encouragement to Pyotr. The lieutenant seated Pyotr across from him and began to fill out a file card. Pyotr was weary of these formalities and started looking around the office. "Now tell me, if you please, how you became a believer," the lieutenant requested. "With pleasure," the prisoner responded. And when Pyotr was finished with the story of his conversion, the lieutenant said, "You are going into a workers' brigade led by a veteran of this camp. Listen to him as if he were your father! Of course, if you were to give up your belief in God, you'd be free immediately!" He rang a bell, and the trustee on duty in the section entered. "Did the leader of the twenty-third brigade go to lunch already?" "Yes." "Call him in here." In a few moments, the brigadier arrived in the office. He was of average stature, compactly built. He had a wily, cunning look on his face. His motions were quick. And he was rigid, really stiff-necked—Pyotr could sense it. The lieutenant turned to the brigadier, saying, "Put this young man into your brigade. He is a Baptist, a fairly active one. Make sure that he doesn't start preaching. As soon as something like that happens, I want to hear about it." The brigadier's eyes narrowed. "As you wish, citizen natchalnik. He won't believe in God very long under my command. I'll reeducate him fast!" Pyotr looked at him sadly and smiled.

"Well, boy, let's move!" The brigadier opened the office door and let the prisoner step out first. In section five, each brigade had its own room. The brigadier pointed to a cot on the upper floor, next to a window. Pyotr threw his few possessions onto the metal planks and went to the supply room. He received a thin kapok mattress, a blanket of cotton flannel, a linen towel, and a pillow made of kapok. When he returned to the brigade's room after hours of standing in line, the prisoners had already returned from their work. They stood around the new arrival and quizzed him on the reasons for his incarceration. Pyotr told his story as he made his bed. When he had finished with that, he felt he needed to pray. "Men, I think that I ought to pray now," he explained to his comrades. They left him alone. A few of them grinned knowingly. "Ha! Praying!" the brigadier scoffed. "Go ahead. Whether you pray or not, your God won't help you." Pyotr immediately rose from his knees and looked at the night table standing next to the brigadier's cot. He said, looking at the photograph he saw there, "And how He helps! God wants to help even you, sir. For this reason He sent His son Jesus, so that through the suffering of Jesus at Golgotha, God could accept us as His children. He wants to bring happiness to you, too. And to your family...." Pyotr continued to look at the picture—a pleasant-looking young woman and three children. Embarrassed, the brigadier slipped the picture into a box, scowling, "I've been done with her for years." Then he lay down on his cot still wearing his clothes. The prisoners who had overheard this conversation began to grin. "Well, briga, have you reeducated him yet?" snickered one of them. Pyotr left the barracks and started looking for the third section, where one of the brothers should be. He was directed to a two-story building next to the school. This school was where

prisoners with less than eight years of primary schooling had to study in the evenings. Pyotr had not been able to see either of the brothers while standing in line for his bedding. On the way across the compound he saw sparrows pecking at food on the ground. He was suddenly overcome by memories, and a smile flitted across his face. "What do you want here?" said a guard, interrupting his reverie. "When we were children, we always robbed the birds' nests, citizen natchalnik. We had nothing to eat, you see. So we stole the ravens', sparrows', and magpies' eggs. We sometimes spent whole days walking through the forest, looking for something to eat. So now I'm glad to see them," Pyotr said innocently. He found Trofim on the building's ground floor, in the room occupied by the construction brigade number eighteen. He was sitting on his cot, chatting with several other prisoners about the arrangement of the work areas. Pyotr sat down next to him. He quickly became aware of a prisoner who had entered after him, walked to his cot, and sat there. This man looked inside his night table, took out his keys and sat down again. Pyotr was astonished by the calmness this man exuded. The look of joy on his face drew Pyotr toward the man. If this man doesn't believe in the living God, then he is a very unusual person, thought Pyotr. At that point, one of the other prisoners said to Pyotr, "Of course, I don't believe in God. But if He exists, then I would recognize Him in the face of our believer over there." Trofim and Pyotr had to meet this man immediately! They walked over to him. "We greet you in the name of Jesus," said Trofim. "You are, of course, a Christian?" "Yes, thank God," the prisoner said happily. "I'm Nikanor. I come from a Pentecostal congregation." "We are evangelicals—Baptists. My name is Trofim, and he is Pyotr." They shook hands. Nikanor put away his keys. "Perhaps we could thank God

briefly for this encounter, brothers?" "Of course," Pyotr and Trofim agreed. "Dear Lord," Nikanor prayed, "it is difficult for us to be so far from our friends and from our families, but Your hand has led us here to testify for You! My heart is happy about this meeting with Your sons. And I ask You: let Your peace and calm go with us, and keep our hearts in Christ Jesus. Amen." They were standing during the prayer. The other prisoners made a detour around them, but listened to their conversation with curiosity. "I am overjoyed about this coming together, brothers! It's dinnertime now, however. Let us go to the canteen and talk more later," Nikanor suggested. "You go ahead," Trofim answered. "We'll stay here. We haven't been put on the list for meals yet. So we'll just have some tea. We've still got a piece of bread left over from our trip here; we'll simply eat that." Nikanor smiled and, a little embarrassed, suggested, "Or why don't we go to dinner together? We'll share my portion. There'll be pea soup; that's good for you." "Don't do that, brother. You see, there are actually three of us. Kostya, who is in the eighth section, will be getting here soon. We'll wait for you to return from the meal," Trofim said. Nikanor left. When Kostya arrived, he and Trofim asked Pyotr to get them some hot water. Kostya was sent for some salt while Trofim sliced the dried-out piece of bread. Finally, each of them put a generous amount of salt on the bread and proceeded to eat it with gusto. "That tastes good," laughed Kostya. But the other two were lost in their thoughts. After dinner, Nikanor brought a tall man along with him. "This is Brother Grisha. He was converted to Christ right here in the labor camp." They sat up until taps sounded, telling each other stories of their lives and of their churches.

8. THE PRISON WITHIN THE PRISON One evening Stolyarov sat down on a neighbor's cot and began to tell him about Jesus. The man listened with rapt attention. Stolyarov painted a very realistic picture of the sufferings of the Son of God, using vivid colors. He certainly knew how to tell a story! He could step up to a fellow prisoner and start a conversation with: "Did you know, Gena, that there is actually Someone in this world who loves you unconditionally?" "Aw shut up, Stolyarov! Who is going to love me after all the people I've robbed and murdered?" the prisoner responded with a hopeless shrug. "You did those things because you know nothing about Him, Gena! This Someone has revealed to me His feelings toward you. He is truly Godlike. You will never encounter a love like His!" The man listened carefully to Stolyarov. An hour later, tears of repentance were running down his cheeks. On another occasion Stolyarov was taking a quiet walk through the prison area. Someone crossed his path. "Who are you talking to, old man?" "Well you know, I am afraid you await a great misfortune," Stolyarov answered. "What kind of misfortune?" the prisoner asked worriedly. Stolyarov then told him about the coming judgment of God, and that permanent imprisonment awaited him if he did not repent. He would suffer forever! Deep in thought; this man walked away from Stolyarov. Later the two became inseparable. Stolyarov was overjoyed when it was Sunday. What a chance to turn the conversation to the subject of Jesus! "Volodya, it's Sunday. Do you know what a wonderful day that is?" "No, I don't know," the other man replied.

So Stolyarov told him of the resurrection of Jesus Christ. He could tell this story as if he had been there only yesterday and had seen it himself. And Stolyarov spoke of inner peace, the peace of the soul, which man needs so urgently. Prisoners listened to him hour after hour as if transfixed. *** An atheistic doctor of philosophy came to the camp to conduct certain studies. After hearing Stolyarov speak he said, "If Stolyarov were to make his appearance in a foreign country, only ruins would remain of all modern theology!" *** A message reached Stolyarov through unofficial channels. It was only a few words: "Don't despair, brother! We in Argentina remember you in our devotions." How Stolyarov glowed with joy after receiving that message! Triumphantly yet gently he spoke to his neighbor about his wonderful Lord. He told how Christ had chosen His people from among all nations and people. "Thanks and praise be to this God! What wonderful people follow Him!" he said. Suddenly Stolyarov dropped to the barracks floor like a sack of flour! A guard had just struck him severely from behind. And before he could get up, the guard kicked him in the stomach so that he lost consciousness for several seconds. Stolyarov's neighbor got up and screamed at the jailer, "You sadist! What are you doing to this man?" A large crowd of prisoners converged, intent on jumping the guard. This would mean at least fifteen more years of imprisonment under horrible conditions. It could also end with the shooting of all those who came to the Christian's aid. These prisoners were prepared to sacrifice their lives, their health and

their freedom for a man who loved them. But before the prisoners could do anything the guard quietly withdrew, vanishing through the door. Stolyarov rose with considerable difficulty. The men helped him to his cot to lie down. He was breathing with difficulty— and then he smiled. Lovingly he looked at his friends and said, "Thank you, men. I'm fine now. Don't touch that guard. Wives, children and parents are waiting for you outside. Go to your bunks. I suspect we'll be seeing soldiers any moment now." Not all of the prisoners had reached their cots when the leader of the section rushed in, accompanied by guards and three soldiers. "What's going on here?" the officer asked Stolyarov. "I don't know, citizen natchalnik." Angrily the guard said, "Comrade lieutenant, he was making propaganda again. I had ordered him not to do that anymore, and his companions tried to beat me up." "Aha, Stolyarov! Jail's not enough for you. You want to rot in jail for an extra term. Or be shot for sabotage or disruption! Get up, you dog!" Without awaiting his reaction, the officer grabbed Stolyarov by the arm and started pulling him toward the corridor. Stolyarov was able to keep his feet, but he struck his head on a post. Then, with guards' fists hitting him in the ribs, he was forced to walk to the exit and on into the solitary cellblock. There they snapped handcuffs on him—the kind of handcuffs Pyotr had become acquainted with elsewhere. Stolyarov's arms were twisted to the back, the wrists in handcuffs. The officers left Stolyarov standing in the solitary cellblock's hallway while they walked to the office of the labor camp's deputy chief in order to discuss what should be done next with this "sect follower." Ten minutes later a guard returned and searched the prisoner. In Stolyarov's pocket the guard found the slip of paper with the message Stolyarov had received. He hissed, delighted at the old man's misfortune.

"Aha! He maintains communication with foreign countries! Ve-ery goo-ood!" The guard left and did not return for a long time. Stolyarov's hands began to swell up behind his back. Soon he had no more feeling in them. The stabbing pain in his wrists almost overcame him. He squatted on the cement floor, then twisted in pain on the floor. The cuffs squeezed his wrists harder and harder. Two hours later the jailer returned and took the handcuffs off Stolyarov, who had fainted by then. He brought him to and led him to the operations office. There were black spots on Stolyarov's wrists, and his hands hung down totally helpless. Eventually he would regain their use. The major sat at the desk, holding the piece of paper. "It hurts, huh, Stolyarov? I've ordered the handcuffs removed from you. As soon as we're finished with you here we'll send you to the doctor. But who is this slip from? As soon as you've told me that you may go." "It's from my sister. We were separated by the war. She and her husband wound up in the West. My family and I were brought to Bessarabia, which is where I lived until my arrest." "How does your sister know that you are in jail?" "Evidently my wife wrote, telling her that I wasn't home. And if I'm not home, where else could I be but in jail?" "Aha! So you communicate with foreign countries?" "But not only the ones we just spoke of. I also have contact with a royal kingdom! An agent from there consoles me all the time and gives me the strength to endure anything. Your people work terribly hard, and yet they don't realize that I am a spy secretly in the employ of this kingdom. And that through me information about you, your activities, and any changes in the disposition of your forces reaches the attention of the King who lives forever!" Stolyarov said. The major listened to this with some amazement and began to stare silently at the prisoner. I could expect a lot more from such an unusual person. Where does he get all his willpower? he

thought. "Something else, citizen natchalnik. I have been placed here in this earthly place in order to promote subversion against the powers of darkness." "Who interrogated you, Stolyarov?" "The KGB." "Did they take note of your contacts with foreign countries?" the major continued. "But of course. They determined that I was born again by the heavenly Father through the blood of Jesus Christ spilled at Golgotha. I am currently here in this nation of darkness as a spy, investigator, and subversive agent. The Lord Jesus Christ has personally appointed me to conduct subversive activity against the communications of the enemy, Satan. I am an ambassador from the city of God, assigned to undercut the authority of His age-old enemy. That is why the devil works so hard to eliminate me. But every time I begin to weaken, I receive a visit from the heavenly agent who descends from God himself—namely, the Holy Spirit. He consoles and strengthens me. You place me in solitary, put on these handcuffs. But I continue to love you and pity you just as before. You do not do any of this of your own will, but you obey the will of your chief. You are part of a miserable, unhappy people because your leader cannot offer you eternal life—only eternal perdition!" The major listened thoughtfully and concluded the interrogation, saying, "Well, all right. You may go. After wearing those handcuffs you obviously can't think straight." "I thank you, citizen natchalnik. I am looking forward to a bit of rest after this handshake from the devil. But do think about the fact that my living King loves you very much. Should you by some chance fall from the devil's graces, come to visit me. I will introduce you to my King, who will definitely not turn you down. He will give you peace and rest, something you do not have at this time." The major interrupted him. "Go on, go, Stolyarov!"

In his section, Stolyarov was received with joy. But taps sounded almost immediately, and he begged his comrades to go to sleep at once. Otherwise some guard might show up at any moment, accusing him of violating the curfew. Stolyarov knelt and prayed for a long time. The guard making the rounds grumbled, "The old man is being pious again!" After the prayer Stolyarov happily stretched out on his cot. He laid his hands down gingerly on his chest. "Are you asleep, father?" his neighbor whispered. "No, Kolya." "I'd like to choke every one of these Communists with my bare hands," the neighbor whispered angrily. "Don't talk like that, my son. You should repent of your anger. Our fight is not directed against political structures, but only against the spirits of evil. The Christian is allowed only one kind of anger—the anger against sin." "Forgive me, father." "God forgives you, my son. But now—good night. My hands are hurting badly. Tomorrow is Saturday; the authorities may well lock me up in solitary then. Sleep, my son." When Stolyarov called this young man his son, he was deeply moved and full of joy. His own son, Anton, had just gone before an army court, and now God allowed him to care for other sons. The next morning Stolyarov did not join the work detail. During the roll call no one called out his name, and no one did afterwards. And so, surprised and fully dressed, he sat on his cot until lunchtime. He kept waiting to be put into solitary. That evening the section commander called him in and told him that his transfer to the disciplinary barracks was being prepared. As was his custom, Stolyarov thanked those who had devoted special attention to him. But the officer, infuriated, chased him out of his office. Stolyarov looked forward to a quiet, peaceful Sunday. This

time he received it. On Monday, wearing his padded jacket and carrying his bowl and spoon in his hand, Stolyarov awaited his escort to the disciplinary barracks. The men of his brigade came to say goodbye. They would certainly not see their friend again for at least six months. The guard waited for Stolyarov in front of the barracks. "Don't get discouraged," Kasenkov (one of the men) consoled Stolyarov. "God will not deliver you to the pigs. They won't eat you up. And if they try it anyway, let them choke to death on you, God willing." "I'm going to—," the guard threatened Kasenkov. "What do you want to do to me, natchalnik? Want to put me into the bunker with Stolyarov? I'd gladly go anywhere with him!" the prisoner needled the guard. "That's enough. You'll get into the Beyond before long anyway," said the guard calmly as he walked off with Stolyarov. Even among the guards there were men who had not lost their humanity. From that day Stolyarov received even shorter rations and had to work in a stone quarry. Inside the disciplinary barracks eight prisoners pushed their mattresses together so that Stolyarov would have room for his. Stolyarov knelt down on his mattress and began to pray. "Quiet, fellows! The old one's praying," the smallest of the group ordered. And the rest of them actually remained quiet until Stolyarov had finished. Then the small one asked, "Tell us something about God, Papasha." "What shall I tell you?" "How you can fast for fifteen days without eating a single crumb. How you can be so sure of this God. Just tell us everything." The conversation lasted until well after midnight. ***

"Are you coming to work?" the chief of the disciplinary barracks asked the prisoners. Normally they were brought to the quarry only if there was an adequate number of soldiers to escort them. Occasionally this didn't work out. Then the prisoners remained in the barracks. "We'd rather not; it doesn't interest us at all, natchalnik," the small man said to the chief. "Yesterday they forgot to heat our barracks. And it was impossible to sleep because of the cold. Now you want to make us pick at rocks? Not this time. We're going to complain to the camp commandant. Then you'll get what's coming to you!" "What do you mean, no heat?" The officer looked puzzled. "The barracks were heated as per orders." "There was no heat. None, natchalnik. And as a protest, we're not going to work today." The officer closed the door. If the military escort had shown up, there would have been no question about going to work. The trustee arrived with the day's allotment of bread. Stolyarov broke his five hundred grams into three equal pieces. Then came the soup, distributed by the guard himself. The trustee was never given the authority to distribute that. After all, the cook —who was also a prisoner—might decide to put something solid and substantial into the soup. There were strict orders that these prisoners were to receive only watered-down soup. However, the men had received good soup once. A correspondent from the Komsomolska Pravda had visited the prison camp. That noon the prisoners had received such hefty helpings of borscht, with such big chunks of meat in it, that they couldn't remember having had that much even while they were still free! Of course, to make up for that there had not been even a speck of grease in the soup the following two weeks. This had caused curses to rain down on the journalist, who had written an impressive article about how well prisoners in the disciplinary barracks were faring. He had almost ended up urging that the dregs of Soviet society should not be treated with such

exaggerated courtesy. The guard opened the flap on the barracks door and called Stolyarov over. "There's been a letter from your wife. Because your son refused to swear allegiance to the flag, he's been sentenced to three years in a correctional labor camp." The flap closed again. Stolyarov went back to his cot. He was filled with sadness. He knew that his son would not have an easy time in jail. Anton was an eager servant of the Lord. But if he, like his father, were to wind up often in solitary, the young man would need much help in prayer to remain steadfast.

9. NEW BROTHERS Man can accustom himself to anything, but Pyotr had always found getting used to new things difficult. So when he began to shear the wool from the sheep pelts which were delivered from the meat preparation plant, he thought that he would never learn this work. The shears would not obey his fingers. They bit either into the wool or into his one pair of prison pants. Later he almost screamed when he poked his left hand with the scissors. He didn't know what to do as his face distorted with pain. But he kept on working. The old prisoners laughed at the new arrivals, as always. But they also reassured them. "It didn't come easily to us either. But eventually we all learned!" During the winter, the shearing of the pelts had to be done in an unheated hall. Every brigade was assigned its own work area there. Since there were no benches or tables, the prisoners worked on the bare floor. Some of them sat on piles of skins. Others had constructed seats from scrap wood which they managed to obtain from the sawmill. The owners of these makeshift chairs refused to let anyone else come near them. But a Tschetschene named Dikkij invited Pyotr to sit down on his seat, and taught him how to shear the sheep pelts. There was so much dust in the hall's air that in the beginning Pyotr couldn't stop sneezing. But this stopped eventually. He also got used to the odor of creosote and to all of the other unpleasant things which happened here. After a while he couldn't understand why his colleagues from the construction brigade or from the sawmill kept holding their noses, and why they kept sneezing, during their visits to the shearing hall. At the end of each shift the wool was delivered to the official in charge. He recorded the weight of what he had received and passed the figures on to the bookkeeping

department. Any man who turned in less than forty percent of the assigned amount was placed on reduced rations for a day. He received only five hundred grams of bread with his water soup, instead of the normal seven hundred grams. Each time the trucks arrived with the pelts there were incredible scenes! Like swarms of bees the prisoners pounced on the bundles of pelts, trying to grab the best pieces for themselves. There was usually at least one fistfight. Wool happens to grow differently on each sheep. A great deal depended on how long ago the sheep had been shorn before it was killed. If pelts with a long growth of wool arrived from the meat plant, look out! It was best not to get into the midst of the prisoners. At the worst one might get trampled; at best get a broken nose. This, then, was how the prisoners worked for the benefit of the state and for their own "betterment." *** Each prisoner could use his day off for personal matters. He might wash his clothes and mend them. If he had been awarded the privilege of corresponding with the outside world, he could write his letters on this free day. If he was on a severely restricted regimen, he was permitted to send out only two letters per month. He had to spend considerable time on every word so that nothing would be snipped out by the censors. The censors actually had no jurisdiction over private matters, but of course they had their instructions about what to allow through and what kinds of suspicious matter to send on to the operations office. The operations people conducted a careful investigation of each offending letter. For example, if a believer employed the word "God" in his letter, such a message would be examined for a long time. Pyotr wrote to his mother as follows: "Dear Mother! I beg you—for God's sake don't worry about me. God watches over me, God feeds me, God gives me my

health...." He was summoned to the operations office. The major asked him why he attacked the Soviet government, and delivered the following speech: "Is it really God who watches over you? We sacrifice strong young men from the ranks of the Soviet army, who stand guard over you night and day with machine pistols in their hands. Then someone like you has the temerity to write that God watches over him! That's absurd! It's slander! And—what? God feeds you? You mustn't lie! A believer is ordered never to lie. It is a fact that the chief of the labor camp takes pains to see to it that you are fed according to regulations and that you ingest the required number of calories! "And—what? God gives you your health? You'd have croaked long ago had it not been for our medical department! After all, you must have a conscience!" When the major made the last statement, Pyotr reached for his left arm, where a swelling had been hurting him. His letter was not sent off. So he wrote another one: "Dear Mother! I know that you worry about me. But don't worry, please. We are getting our just due here. The chief of the operations office here says that we live under communism. If you only knew how well we are treated under communism! Around our Communist society is a wooden fence reinforced on top with several rows of barbed wire. Around the inside of this fence we have a strip of forbidden territory. Outside are several other such zones where we are not allowed. At the corners of our rectangular barracks area are watchtowers in which Socialist soldiers stand guard with machine pistols. They have been called to protect us from an imperialist invasion. Outside, our zone is protected by huge, gray German shepherds. They're as big as our year-old calves back home. These dogs guard us so that the imperialist forces cannot introduce spies or subversive agents against communism into our midst. "The chief of our camp spoonfeeds us. Mornings, there's

soup made from H20 enhanced by a few grits or oatmeal flakes. Occasionally it appears that fish have actually taken a swim in this soup. But these must have been attacked by predator fish, so that only their bones were left for us to gnaw on. Once I nearly choked to death on a fish bone. The chief of my section said, however, that this meant nothing. This would allow me to open my throat wider so that I would lose less work time while I was eating. I could gulp down my lunch without chewing at all and go back to work without missing a step! "At lunch we eat from a menu which causes my mouth to water when I think of it. It's hearty Russian borscht with the kind of meat enjoyed by birds and by the Japanese (at least that's what I've read). I mean worms, a true delicacy! The worms take care of the meat and fat content required in our nutrition. After that we get grits or barley or that horse rice we all love so much, namely oatmeal. "My health is superior. Our doctor has examined me and pronounced me healthy as an ox. I complained about a pain in my left arm. He laughed and asked me to open my mouth. He counted my teeth and told me I was as healthy as a stallion. Therefore, my dear ones, if life is difficult under socialism, then build up communism! Well, each according to his abilities...." This time around the camp commandant asked to see Pyotr. Also present were all of his deputies, including the head of the operations office. One of them held Pyotr's letter in his hands. They evidently had just listened to its contents. Apart from the major, all of the officials seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood. "Pyotr, we have read your letter. And we frankly wonder why you have described our labor camp in such careful detail," said the lieutenant colonel. The young prisoner looked at the chief of the operations office and answered, "Earlier I wrote my mother that she is not to worry because God watches over me, nourishes me, and gives me my health. The major was not pleased by this. He told me, 'You

are living here in a Communist society. To write that God watches over you is at the very least a criminal statement.' He then counted off the many ways in which we are aided. That soldiers guard us. That the chief of the medical service makes sure that we are healthy. This, then, is what I wrote to my mother so that she would not worry about me and also so she would get an idea of what communism is. Out there among the Socialists they have no idea how we live here under communism!" "You studied Marxism and Leninism in the people's university. Is that where you were taught this?" the political boss asked. "Not at all. But what could my political education have been compared to the enlightenment the major has? Nothing! Worthless! This is why I listened to what he had to say. And if he, with his authority, determines that we are living as Communists in this labor camp, then he obviously knows what he is talking about. Isn't that what you said, citizen major?" Pyotr asked. The major sat in stony, silent anger. Pyotr continued: "I myself believe in God. My mother lets herself be comforted by the Lord. This is why I wanted to direct her thoughts toward God. But the major forbade me this and demands that I console her with facts about the communism under which I allegedly live. As a result I could not share my theoretical knowledge about Socialist politics, but only the practical experiences to which I have been exposed here." The lieutenant colonel swallowed hard. Then suddenly he roared with laughter. The political chief, the chief of the health department, and the remaining deputies joined their chief in his laughter, while only the major retained his frozen stare at the prisoner. The lieutenant colonel was the first one to stop laughing, and he told the young man, "All right. In the future, you can calm your mother with talk of God, since she is so devout. And leave communism out." "Are my fellow believers also permitted to console their

wives with God, or do they have to continue to write about communism?" The major growled, "Let them speak for themselves. Next thing, you'll want to act as their spokesman! Back to work with you!" "Thank you," Pyotr said in his customarily courteous manner. "I am especially thankful to you for arriving at the conclusion that God is a much better comforter for the peoples of the world than communism. I assume, too, that you will shortly come to the conclusion that the followers of the living God face a brighter future than the followers of communism. Believe me, I know my way around the theory of communism just as well as the actions of the living God. So again, thank you!" Pyotr noticed that the officers had begun to exchange looks and that the political chief was beginning to moisten his lips prior to speaking. Pyotr hastened to the door. They might suddenly change their minds! He hurried to Nikanor, Trofim, and Kostya to tell them of the results of his meeting. And while they talked about how Christ took residence in those Christians who had faith in Him, Pyotr saw the chief of the operations office enter the barracks along with his section leader. They were talking about Pyotr. When they saw the four believers together the major snarled, "This young one is the most dangerous of the three Baptists." Pyotr bit down on his lip when he heard this conversation. But nevertheless, whatever happened, he could write home about God as much as he wanted! Some time later the brigade leader came over to Pyotr and whispered, "A shipment of prisoners has just arrived from southern Kasachstan. Among them there is one of you believers. Do you want to see him?" "Very much!" "I'll escort you over to the barracks area. Then I'll arrange your visit with the guard. He is quite courteous to me. Come to the gate in about five minutes."

The brigade leader walked off. Pyotr put down the pelt he was working on and waited a few minutes. Then he walked over to the gate and was let through without any difficulty. The work zone was separated from the living zone by tall fences with rows of barbed wire on top. How happy Pyotr was! A group of prisoners stood in line outside the supply room waiting to be clad in prisoners' clothing. The man whom Pyotr sought had already finished and was in the process of receiving his bedding. Pyotr waited until he signed the receipt. Then he helped the new arrival by carrying his mattress and pillow. Together they walked toward the man's residential barracks. They did not talk to each other until they had become acquainted with the new barracks. The new man's name was Semyon. But they did not get a chance to talk. The officer in charge of discipline, accompanied by the guard in the area, tracked down Pyotr and sent him back to his work. That evening Pyotr told his friends that a new believer had arrived, that he was a member of the True Orthodox Church, and that they should greet him together. Kostya's forehead knit in puzzlement. "But what if he is a member of the True Orthodox Church? Does that make him a truly orthodox believer?" This troubled Pyotr. How could Kostya react to Semyon's denomination in such an unloving way? Then Nikanor came into the room. Pyotr had already told him about the new man. Pyotr and Kostya asked Nikanor for his opinion. "Well, brothers, during my first period in jail I ran into many Orthodox believers whose lives were far more Christ-centered than those of many Baptists and Pentecostals." "But they're not born again Christians!" Kostya protested. "Many of them aren't born again," admitted Nikanor. "But those whom I came to know certainly had surrendered their lives to Christ! It's true that most of them do not consider it a sin to drink a little wine on one of their holy days. In my opinion, the

Bible does not actually forbid it. And as far as their icons and crosses are concerned, this happens to be the way they have been brought up. Isn't it possible that we taught members of our own congregations many incorrect things, too, because of our incomplete knowledge of Christ's teachings? All of us behave according to the way we have been taught." "I don't want to have anything to do with them—even if they drink only a tiny bit of wine!" Trofim announced categorically. Nikanor smiled, somewhat personally hurt by this categoric rejection. "And what of Paul's advice in chapter five of his first letter to Timothy—urging him to take a little wine? And did you know that Spurgeon, the great British Baptist preacher, smoked cigarettes? And you are most enthusiastic about his sermons! Let me assure you that any real believer among the Orthodox would admit that if he had done anything which was sinful and an offense against God, he would gladly give it up for the Lord's sake. "Now, I don't know Semyon. But those of his brethren whom I came to know in prison camps after the war were thoroughly upright Christians," Nikanor concluded. "We are not saved by belonging to any particular branch of the church; only those who are pure in heart will see the Lord," Pyotr added. To this the friends said, "Amen!" and went together to visit Semyon. They came upon him standing between two rows of bunks praying, with his hands folded and his back toward them. But in a short while he turned around and bowed toward them. Nikanor extended his hand and introduced himself. The rest of the brethren followed him in greeting the newcomer. They decided to have tea together. They called over Grisha, who had come to know the Lord while in the prison camp. He in turn went searching for a piece of dry bread in one of the cupboards. They spent a wonderful and undisturbed evening together. Semyon spoke about his life and told them how he had

been arrested along with his sister. She had been sentenced to three years in prison and he to five. Pyotr became close friends with Semyon right from the outset. This man was later to play an important role in Pyotr's life. *** Lapin arrived at the camp some time after Semyon. He was put into Pyotr's section. The section commander did not actually want to accept Lapin after looking through his file. The man was already old and could not work. Besides, the leader had enough trouble with one believer already in his section. "No! Comrade major, don't try to talk me into it. Put this Lapin into the invalids' section!" But the head of the operations office whispered something conspiratorial in the leader's ear. The prisoner who gave out the work assignments was not allowed to hear what was said. "This man in your section is a Baptist. The new man is an Adventist. Don't you understand? Before a week passes they'll be in each other's hair! This is how we'll take that young fellow out of action. He'll give up his beliefs, I guarantee it! That 'baby' Christian will get more than his fill of the old man and all of that religious stuff of his!" The lieutenant grinned and turned to Lapin, who stood waiting for further orders. "All right then, Lapin. We hope you'll forget all about God. You can come into my section." Lapin sighed and shuffled off behind the lieutenant. "We've got a regular monastery in this camp," the section leader growled. "We've got Baptists, Pentecostals, Orthodox, and now we've even got an Adventist. What a mess!" The officer was deliberately loud because he wanted Lapin to hear him. He wanted to see just how the old man would react to his taunting. Lapin's smiling response caused the officer to become angry and say, "What's so funny about that?" "I'm happy about the fact that there are members of our

Christian people in the camp, citizen natchalnik." "What do you mean by 'our people'? These men don't belong to your confession!" "That means nothing. It makes no difference what color the wool is, as long as there are sheep in the flock. I am also one of the flock of Christ," the old man answered. Lapin picked up his prisoner's garb and bedding at the quartermaster's. He sat down on the bundle while waiting for the brigade leader to take him to his living quarters. It was about time for lunch break. While Lapin sat waiting, Pyotr ran toward him, saying, "I hear that you are a believer." "I am," said Lapin. "That's great!" Pyotr said, delighted. "Now there are six of us. I think you will feel very much at home in our Christian family." "But I'm an Adventist." "You may be that here on earth," the young man said, "but up in heaven, thank the Lord, there are neither Baptists nor Catholics nor Orthodox nor Lutherans nor Adventists. Only those who are pure in heart will see the Lord." Lapin looked the young man over with great interest. His heart was warmed at the privilege of encountering such a Christian. Before he could continue the conversation Lapin absolutely had to find an empty bunk—a lower bunk. But all the lower bunks were occupied. So Pyotr asked a braggart named Shdanov to switch from his lower bunk to one of the empty upper bunks in the second row. Shdanov agreed to it instantly. (His reason: the person in an upper bunk could see the officers entering sooner.) Pyotr hurriedly made Lapin's bed, then raced to the canteen for lunch. That evening Pyotr introduced the old man to the other brethren. Semyon called out in delight, "Ah, an old acquaintance! I know him from the KGB isolation ward and from jail. We were

in the same cell! He kept lecturing me about icons and crosses and about my Orthodoxy!" Lapin smiled at him, and Semyon embraced the old man and kissed him three times, as is the custom among Russians. "If an Adventist is kissing an Orthodox, things really cannot be too bad around here," Pyotr laughed. Trofim started out being very reserved toward Lapin, but the ice melted after their first joint prayer. Next day the section leader ordered Lapin, who was sixtynine and suffered from high blood pressure, to be assigned to a work detail. Pyotr confided this to his brigade leader. The brigade leader set out to see the chief, but the section leader had come directly to the brigade's quarters, snarling, "Lapin, you're going to work like everybody else. I've assigned you to the consumer goods section. It's a regular work detail and you'll have to hustle there!" Lapin looked distraught. He did not know what to say to the lieutenant. But Pyotr cut in, "Citizen natchalnik, according to law Lapin doesn't have to work. He has already done his part in his active years." The lieutenant interrupted. "I didn't ask you whether Lapin should work or not! He is required to work! He had enough strength to make fools of our people; so why is he too weak to work? He's going to do his share!" "Well, if your Communist ideology teaches you to take advantage of a man who is old enough to be your grandfather, I'll gladly shut up. But how do you expect to convince us believers that your ideology is a humane one when your actual deeds confirm you to be at best a sadist?" "What? We—sadists?" the lieutenant screamed. "We'll throw you in the tank for ridiculing camp regulations!" Pyotr did not allow the lieutenant to intimidate him. "If according to your morality Lapin has to work, then he will work," he allowed. "But if you wish to demonstrate your ideology's superiority to our gospel, then you should certainly conduct

yourself in a more humane way. This is what your newspapers talk about. In the same way you may require us to live according to our gospel. If we violate the commands of Jesus Christ, it would be right, in my opinion, for you to put us into your isolation cells!" Pyotr's plea was received with loud laughter from the brigade leaders. But when the doorway began to fill with curious observers, the lieutenant decided it would be a good idea for him to stop the discussion. "I'll have a few more words to say to you some other time, greenhorn," he growled. The brigade leader hurried after the lieutenant, asking, "All right now; should Lapin go to work or not?" "Let him stay in the barracks!" Before rushing off to join his work detail Pyotr quickly found a book for Lapin to read. *** The one portion of Scripture on hand in the camp, The Revelation of John the Divine, was in the custody of Nikanor. He had been able to smuggle it into the prison area after a private visit from his wife. He memorized it word for word during the time when he was the only believer in the camp. God held His hand over the Scripture, protecting it from harm during some critical periods. At various times Nikanor hid it in his mattress, then in his pillow, at another period burying it in the ground after carefully wrapping it in plastic. On another occasion those in the section for felonies cared for it for him. When other believers arrived he let them borrow it, one after the other. The residential zone had a number of places that were hidden from view. These were round tables with large umbrellas where one could sit down to play dominoes. One of these tables was regularly used by the believers so that they could listen to the book of Revelation together. They sat around the table, one

standing watch while another of them read aloud. On this particular day Trofim had been reading from the twenty-second chapter: "And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, pure as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb. In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. And there shall be no more curse: but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it: and his servants shall serve him: and they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever." As Trofim was reading from the fifth verse the lookout was concentrating so hard on the words that he did not see the approaching danger. Suddenly the book was ripped out of Trofim's hands. The believers looked up, shocked. A sergeant was standing behind Trofim, thumbing through Revelation, apparently reading various verses. This continued for about ten minutes. It seemed like an eternity to the brethren. Each one of them asked himself, Is he going to give the book back or not? Kostya began to pray, his head bowed over the table. The others, except for Semyon, followed his example. Semyon kept on poking the soil indifferently with his boot as if nothing were happening. Finally the sergeant gave the book back to Trofim. The sergeant said, "This is a good book. My parents had a Bible, too. But you ought to be careful where you read this book in this place. You've got to watch it, or else you'll be caught with it. Then the book will be confiscated and you'll get a hitch in the disciplinary barracks as well. All right, you didn't see me and I didn't see you— understand? Keep on reading." He walked away. The brethren were too amazed to move. They hardly dared to believe what had happened. Would the sergeant come back and take away their jewel, their treasure? Or

wouldn't he? Finally Nikanor placed the book back in his breast pocket and suggested that they all give thanks to the Lord for His help.

10. THE GREAT PHYSICIAN When Pyotr was a small child his uncle told him stories from the Bible. When he went on to high school, Pyotr began to think that some of the Bible stories were a bit too much for a modem youth of the twentieth century to swallow. He particularly felt this way about the book of Jonah. When Pyotr became a believer—that is, after he had turned to God and had become a member of His congregation through water baptism—he began to examine the story of Jonah with great care. He asked God to give him a clear understanding of this book. He received some help from an article in the publication Science and Religion, which reported that sperm whales were able to swallow living human beings. It had even been possible to rescue some living human beings who had spent some time inside whales' stomachs. Prison is a place where a Christian may reflect about his former life. Nowhere else does a Christian react to his sins and his faults so intensely. Pyotr was going through such an experience during his imprisonment. He felt alone, and his previous life as a Christian—with all its negative aspects— became clearly visible to him. During the nights he lay awake, his eyes open, making comparisons: This is how Jesus conducted himself—and this is how I conducted myself. His fellow believers seemed not to be aware of Pyotr's struggle, and he did not want to tell them. He was always a joyful participant when the brethren were together. Only Semyon noticed how Pyotr was acting out his inner torment. But Semyon kept silent and waited. Pyotr reached the point of emotional bankruptcy. He was in dire need of help. On the way to work Semyon caught up with Pyotr, jabbed him gently, and asked, "Why are you so depressed?" Pyotr did not answer. How could an Orthodox Christian who had not even been born again help him, he thought

defiantly. "You know, Pyotr, when one's own personal conduct becomes too hard to take, one should not concentrate on one's sins and flaws. Instead, one should look toward Golgotha, toward the merciful Christ! You are correct in castigating yourself for your early shortcomings. But do look to Christ. He has forgiven all those shortcomings and thrown them aside! He no longer thinks about them—so why should you?" "How do you know that I am having this trouble?" "Allow me to continue. If the devil tempts you into believing that you have blashphemed against the Holy Spirit, this is evidence that he wants to destroy you, to toss you into the yawning pit of despair! This is what happens when you take your former sins too much to heart. This is how the devil will defeat you. You should obey the words of Paul, who forgot what lay behind and stretched himself toward the goal, which is Christ. You know, Paul never took his eyes off Christ. He knew that to lose sight of Him would be a catastrophe! But look at you. You want to be your own personal savior—and cleanse yourself with your qualms of conscience? It won't work! It's catastrophic! I am a greater sinner than you. Yet I move forward instead of trampling around on my past sins!" Pyotr again asked him, "How do you know all this?" "Pyotr, you Baptists think that our Lord Jesus is close to only you. You look down on other believers who understand certain things differently. But perhaps they do not love Christ any less than you do! Do you remember what Nathanael told Philip about Jesus? 'What good can come out of Nazareth?' When I arrived here your friends looked at me condescendingly as if to say, 'What good can come out of the Orthodoxy?' And I say to you that God can be found only in a humble, broken vessel, not an Orthodox, Lutheran, or Baptist one! I sat through my first term in prison with Nikolai Khrapov, a Baptist pastor, and partook with him of the Holy Communion, and he did not look down on me. To the contrary, when I was not present at one occasion the

group sent for me, inviting me personally to join their devotions. I could have become a Baptist long ago, but I want only to be with Christ. This is what I am waiting for. The closer He comes to me the more likely it is that He will show me what I must do. What saves any one of us is childlike, sincere belief, instead of false erudition or learning! Up to now God has wanted me to work in His vineyard as an Orthodox believer, and I am not going to violate His desires." Pyotr listened to Semyon. He accepted his guidance with thanks. There was no trace left of his former protestations. His heart was so filled with gratitude and praise that he suggested, "Semyon, could we go and pray in the unfinished barracks?" "Let us go." "Lord," Pyotr prayed, "today You have again shown me that You do not look at the person but at the humble and contrite heart. Thank You for being so great and so wonderful. Thank You for showing Semyon the condition of my heart and for showing me the way to You. I acclaim You; I praise You. Amen." After Semyon had said his own brief prayer, they each went their own way. *** "Dear little brother: It has been a long time since we last had a letter from you. Mother cries day and night. It has already been six months since you were arrested. When we came to visit you we had a conversation with the camp's political chief. He asked us how you had become a believer, where you had gone to school, and whether he could become acquainted with your teacher. Then I asked him whether you could receive medical treatment. His explanation was that you would receive as much medical care as you wanted if you refrained from spreading religious propaganda. Mama began to cry, whereupon the chief told us, 'It would have been far better if he had committed murder rather than being a believer.' That terrible place is so full of hatred

for you! We are afraid for your life. Mama consoles herself by saying that God is more powerful than all atheists and that He will protect you. Why don't you write us at least a few lines so that we will know how your health is...." Instinctively Pyotr reached for his left arm. It hurt him. The letter continued: "Some of the official state church's leaders have declared that you are outside the law, and continue to exclude all those who don't agree with the regulation forbidding Christian work with children and youth groups. This has set the government against those who oppose this compromise. Now they've begun to drag them before the courts. If the leader of a congregation actually condemns anyone as operating outside Soviet law, how extra happy the authorities will be to haul this believer into jail." Pyotr suddenly became sad, depressed. For a long time he sat motionless, his hand pressed to his heart. It had been beating irregularly for some time. Finally he took a few drops of medicine and continued reading. "A preacher from near here told me that nowhere in the Bible is it stated that we are to analyze the Word of God and to create specific congregations praying for a revival. Neither is it written that one should not go to the movies, own a television set, or read anti-religious literature...." Indeed, thought Pyotr. But for all that, it is written, "Put everything to the test, and keep only the good." "I answered him," his sister wrote, "that I was not a believer but would never join the camp of those persecutors as that collaborating preacher had done." Pyotr sighed heavily, put the letter down on his cot and took twenty more drops of Valocardin. Yes indeed, God raises His disciples from out of stones. Pyotr's uncle, a preacher himself, had said that. In Scripture the cock's crow made Peter aware that he had betrayed Christ. Here a nonbeliever points to a preacher of the gospel who had betrayed Him, too. Poor Russia!

Pyotr looked out of his window without really seeing the prison yard. He loved his country so much! Someone touched him on the shoulder. It was Kostya. "What's the matter with you?" Wordlessly Pyotr showed him the letter. Pyotr's left arm was in bad condition—very bad, in fact. He could no longer raise it at all. On top of this, he had little hope of receiving worthwhile medical treatment while he remained in the prison camp. The brethren were not aware of his worries about the arm. All he had told them was that his left arm hurt and that it was probably rheumatism. Finally one day in July he made up his mind to see the camp doctor. Pyotr was at the back of the line. And when after a long wait he finally reached the consultation room, he had to listen to the following: "Oh yes, another faker!" Pyotr wanted to march right out again but persuaded himself to describe his ailment to the doctor. The doctor examined the arm, looked into his patient's face, then took him to the chief of the medical section. Pyotr was asked when the swelling had first come to his notice, how long he had felt pain, and other such questions. The doctor ordered that the usual tests be conducted on the patient. After being dismissed from the infirmary Pyotr sought out his brethren. They were sitting together around a table out in the open air, reading their personal letters. At that point Pyotr's section leader arrived on the scene. "Hey, you people—scatter! What kind of edifying little gettogether is this? I don't want to see you starting a congregation!" "Citizen natchalnik, we're only reading our mail from back home. Our children are telling us how much they miss us," said Nikanor calmly. "Well, let them wait! Get rid of that God of yours and you can go home!" cried the officers. "Your newspapers are full of stories about the fact that we weren't thrown into jail for our beliefs," Pyotr said. "Yet you tell

us to get rid of our beliefs. How do the two ideas belong together?" "You—you snotnose! How did you fall among these Baptists anyway? You should have gotten a beating for that! All right now —scatter!" At that moment the officer noticed two members of the internal security section. Recognizing their armbands, he took them to task. "Where, may I ask, are your eyes? These sect members are having their meeting here and you look on silent as fish! I want to make it hot for these praying brethren!" The brethren departed. Pyotr remained where he stood, looking at the furious officer with real compassion. The officer spluttered, "What are you hanging around here for? On the double—to your barracks! I am conducting a lineup in section five in a minute!" "I am ill, natchalnik," replied Pyotr. "I would rather not see you so furious. You're a human being, too, and you've heard something about humanitarianism. How can you allow yourself to become so upset? It is possible that my illness will soon put me in my grave, but I would much rather see the human being in you than...." "You mean a beast, right? You don't seem to have any idea of what I could do to you!" Pyotr gave a sad smile. "It's too late. Some time ago you might have been able to intimidate me. But now I know what disease I've got; so I no longer care about what happens to me. Why don't you rejoin the human race? Please don't hold any lineups in your state of mind! The 'heroic Soviet prisoners' would at least like to see the human being in you; we don't see many nice things around here. And you're partly at fault for that, too." After saying this Pyotr turned away and walked slowly toward his section. The security people looked after him with approval. They would tell their comrades later about this conversation between the officer and the believer.

That evening there was no official lineup. *** When the chief of the medical section received the complete results of his tests, he called Pyotr in. "How do you feel?" "Good, thank God." "I will probably have to put you into the infirmary of the medical section. Since you are a believer I can tell you that I do not foresee a good ending for you. According to all indications your swelling is malignant." Pyotr left the room, stunned. After walking aimlessly around the prison yard without meeting a single one of his friends, he went to his barracks. Some of the prisoners were playing chess and others dominoes. Pyotr looked on distractedly, then climbed up into his bunk. His neighbor pulled at his sleeve and asked, "Do you want something to eat?" "No thank you, Dikkij." "But why not? I have a chunk of lamb's tail. Why don't you have some? Just a little bit?" Dikkij kept urging him. He spoke terrible Russian, but he had a good soul, this Tschetschene. It was a puzzle to Pytor how such a man could have been condemned to prison for fifteen years as an accessory to murder. "Thank you, Dikkij. You are so good to me. But I don't have the desire to eat. I'm sick. And it's too late to operate on my arm, if I understand the doctor correctly." "Don't be sad! Doctors don't always know everything either." The rest of the prisoners showed their concern. They stopped their games and respectfully went out to the corridor to have their cigarettes. After a while Semyon came into the barracks and said softly to Pyotr, whose back was turned, "Come, why don't you get up.

We'll go out for a breath of fresh air." Pyotr turned halfway around and declined. He wanted to be alone. "This is not the way to deal with this, Pyotr. God has permitted this to happen, and He is able to help. At least show yourself to your brethren. It's wrong to keep your sickness quiet and to slink away from them." Pyotr obeyed and put on his shoes. During their walk Semyon told him stories of his life. But Pyotr wasn't listening and did not respond to Semyon's questions. "Wake up! Let's go to the unfinished barracks and pray," he said, giving Pyotr a little push. "Good. I see Lapin, Grisha and Nikanor over there. Perhaps they'll join us." So all five vanished into the unfinished building. Each one took his turn saying a brief prayer. Semyon stood next to his young brother, and when his turn came he laid both of his hands on Pyotr's head and prayed: "Lord, You know our brother's need. I beg You, intercede for him and heal him! You performed these miracles while You were on earth. You are that very same God now and will continue to be for all eternity. Amen." Pyotr prayed in silence but with great intensity. He implored God to help his whole being. Then the brethren separated. Semyon walked to Pyotr's section with him and insisted that he go straight to bed. *** When Pyotr woke up the next morning he was filled with an indescribable sense of joy. He jumped down from his bunk and ran into the yard to wash himself. He used his left arm as vigorously as he did his right without thinking about it at all. "Well, you certainly look happy again today!" said the leader of his brigade. "You must have had a nice dream about your

girlfriend!" "Not at all, brigade leader. I'm simply happy because I am in Christ! God offers you this happiness, too. The sooner you reach out for it,..." Pyotr said, finishing his drying off. Lapin, who was washing himself at the same time, smiled to himself. While they were getting dressed, Dikkij asked Pyotr whether he would come to eat today. Pyotr was just opening his cabinet with his right hand and reaching for his key with the left one. As if he had been struck by lightning, he remembered that he ought not to be able to use his left arm! But it wasn't hurting anymore at all! There was absolutely no more pain! He touched his left arm with his right hand. "Dikkij, feel this. Where are those knots in my arm?" His neighbor felt around. Amazed, he confirmed that there were no more swellings. Pyotr invited Lapin, who had just arrived, to feel his arm, too. More and more prisoners began to collect around Pyotr. "Why aren't you going to the canteen?" the brigade leader called. "You're going to have to go to work soon." "Touch this, will you?" Dikkij asked him. The brigade leader came around. But something totally unexpected happened next. With a swift, well-aimed blow of his left hand to the brigade leader's stomach, Pyotr sent the man flying onto the next bunk! Everybody laughed heartily, but the young prisoner looked down in embarrassment. He couldn't understand what had happened. The brigade leader picked himself up, pulled himself together, looked at Pyotr's arm in disbelief, swallowed the pain, and went off to the canteen without saying a word. Pyotr ran after him, apologizing profusely. The answer Pyotr received was by no means unfriendly. "I've never seen anything like this in my whole life. Either you never had this malignancy or your God must really exist!" Further words were unnecessary. Now Pyotr had to see Semyon! He forgot about breakfast and hurried to Semyon's

barracks. The brother sat on his bunk and did not react to Pyotr's arrival. "Touch this please," Pyotr asked. "That I do not wish to do. One should never tempt the Lord. He is true to His promises. But hear this: to God alone goes all the glory. Make certain that you never in your life give the credit for this healing to me or to anyone else! Otherwise you will receive a setback. The honor must go solely and exclusively to God and to no one else. Simply praise the Lord and thank Him. Remember this truth throughout your whole life: if God had not interceded for you, you would have died." Semyon smiled, full of love. He folded his hands and concluded by saying, "All honor and glory go to You, O Lord! To You alone, all honor! Amen." *** After work hours the head of the medical unit ran into Pyotr and asked him, "Well, shall we ride to the infirmary together?" "I don't feel like it at all, citizen natchalnik. I am quite healthy." "As of when?" scoffed the doctor. "Just feel my arm, citizen natchalnik, if you don't believe me:" Pyotr extended his left arm. The lieutenant probed the affected area, looked at the prisoner inquiringly, and murmured to himself, "Like witchcraft...." He then carefully felt the entire arm again, shook his head in disbelief, and went on his way. After that, Pyotr's doubt about the story of Jonah disappeared, too. Pyotr no longer had the slightest question that everything took place exactly as the Bible reported it. The God who works wonders, who listens to His children's prayers, this God could surely create a fish which could carry Jonah in its stomach for three days and later spit him out unharmed. Perhaps such super whales still existed!

Pyotr was filled with joy.

11. TESTED BY THE KGB Pyotr knew the inside of the operations office from the day he was called there for using the word "God" in a letter. But his second summons from there shocked Pyotr. He was at his usual job of shearing pelts when the duty officer from operations came to get him. Semyon was sitting next to Pyotr at the time. He said, "Go with God, Pyotr. I will be praying." Pyotr went off. What was the point in trying to figure out why he was being called in? He would know soon enough. But his heart was heavy. The operations office was equipped so that no sound, no scream could be heard on the outside. Whoever closed the outer door and then the inner door behind him was isolated from the outer world. The operations official could scream at him, curse at him, and beat him up with impunity. Not a soul could hear anything and no one could come to help. After he had closed that inner door Pyotr noticed a tall, older man chatting with the major. Pyotr greeted them and identified himself. The major left the room, leaving the man in civilian clothes alone with the prisoner. The older man ordered Pyotr to sit down across from him and to put his hands on the table. The prisoner obeyed. At first the stranger observed him with a kind of curiosity. He then showed Pyotr an identity card which revealed that he was a lieutenant colonel of the KGB and the head of the district's bureau of investigations. Cold sweat ran down Pyotr's back. But he remembered the words of Jesus— "Do not be concerned about the answers you are to give"—and his heart was soon full of peace. "Aren't you amazed that a functionary of the state security committee has ordered you to be brought in for a conversation?" the lieutenant colonel asked.

Pyotr shrugged. "What is there to wonder about? The only thing that isn't clear is what possible connection there could be between the state's security and my religion." "You will understand that soon. I've been chatting with your friends from Siberia, asking them a few questions. They are a congregation of prayer. There are about twenty of them in your hometown. Would you be so kind as to tell me who is the leader of that congregation?" "In principle I cannot answer such questions. It is obvious that you know, without my having to tell you, who is the leader of the congregation. And who is a deacon and who has other official church duties. So you only require confirmation from a believer like me if you are attempting to build a case against one of my brethren. Therefore I can't tell you anything." "Is it a secret who the leader of your congregation is? Who was in charge of your worship services in Siberia?" "The worship services are at all times led by the Lord himself, acting through the Holy Spirit, which is also what we believers pray for, " Pyotr replied. "Stop that nonsense!" The officer pulled a Bible out of the desk drawer. Well, we certainly did not know that the operations chief had a Bible with him here! Could one ask to borrow it? thought Pyotr. The lieutenant colonel began to read from First Peter. "The elders which are among you I exhort, who am also an elder...." Then he asked, "Who was your elder?" Pyotr asked him for the Bible. The officer gave it to him silently. Turning to the tenth chapter of the Gospel of John, Pyotr read, "I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep." "That's enough!" the KGB man broke in angrily. "Are you going to answer my question or not?" "Never." The officer looked into Pyotr's eyes for what seemed an eternity. Finally he said, "How can you dare to deny me your

answer? You call yourself a Christian and do not submit to the institutions of the Soviet nation! What kind of Christian does that make you? It makes you a phony and a charlatan, acting against the gospel as you do!" "I thank you," Pyotr said, "for taking on a pastoral concern for the fulfillment of the gospel. I always tell the administration here that if we believers do something against the will of God we should be thrown into solitary so we won't forget Christ!" Meanwhile the lieutenant colonel had found the place in the book of Romans he had been searching for. " 'Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. . . .' How do you interpret that which is written here?" "Fine. I will explain to you how I understand what is to be the Christian's submission to the higher powers. Some believers justify their conduct by referring to the rule about being subject to the higher powers—that passage you were reading from in Romans. This letter was addressed to Christians who at the time were being brutally persecuted. Did the apostle Paul wish for them to die? Or did he advise them that it would be better to deny Christ? Did he order them to obey the Roman dictator more than Christ, because he saw them being torn to pieces by wild animals in Nero's amphitheater? "Have you read Sienkiewicz's book, Quo Vadis? In one of the scenes Paul is found in an amphitheater comforting the Christians who have been crucified there. Paul does not say, 'Come down from the cross!' as these puppets of yours in ministers' clothing are advising us to do. Instead he reminds them that they will soon be with the Lord. He gave them this comfort so that they would remain true—not to Nero, but to the Lord Jesus! "If the worldly powers require us to work honestly and to fulfill all those duties of a citizen which do not violate the teachings of Jesus, then we will obey. Even if the authorities are declared enemies of God. But if the authorities or the KGB attempt to manipulate the consciences of Christians by telling

them how to worship their God, how to serve Him and so forth, then we cannot be expected to obey you instead of Christ. You forbid us to evangelize. Yet when Paul was prohibited from doing this, God's will became more important to him. We must be more obedient to God than to man! "As for your specific questions, the same apostle writes, 'Be always ready to assume your responsibility with anyone who asks you to account for the hope which lives in you.' But you don't ask me to account for the hopes I have. Rather, you question me about the duties of my brethren in the congregation. It would be no sin for me to answer you. You are well aware of their names, as you say. But if I were responsible for divulging my brothers' names to you, that would be a sin. In one sense Judas did not commit a sin, either! Everyone knew Jesus anyway, and Judas was only leading the soldiers to Gethsemane! There are enough such Judases without my also becoming one of those men who despise themselves and are eventually hanged from the nearest post when their usefulness has ended." The officer in civilian clothes eagerly took down everything Pyotr spoke about, and Pyotr closed by saying, "So, citizen lieutenant colonel, find yourself another tattletale. I'm not doing so badly, living here in this camp. The natchalnik in charge of operations says we live here just like Communists should. And the chief of my section spoke to me in words like these: 'It is a sin for you people to grumble; you've got a genuine form of communism here.' We are ready to serve our time." The lieutenant colonel interrupted, chuckling, "You certainly wrote some interesting letters about our communism!" Pyotr shrugged his shoulders and remained still. "Listen, young man," the officer continued, "things are heading for a sorry ending for you. Give up trying to live like this! We will start to think we must treat you more strictly. Hang your religion on a nail! Your life is just beginning! You've got your whole life before you!" "Occasionally I do ask myself what use there is for senseless

conversations like this, citizen natchalnik. We believers are well acquainted with the program of your Communist society: in total communism there is no room for bourgeois manifestations. This means that religion will have to be annihilated no matter what the cost! If you are not in the position to reach this goal with ideological measures—in other words, by undermining Christian congregations from within and by recruiting religious leaders to become denouncers of their own religion—then the believers will have to be physically destroyed, annihilated. That is, if God allows that to happen. Thus we Christians who find ourselves in this allegedly most inclusive of democracies in the whole world, are condemned to be liquidated. I find comfort, however, in the idea that in the future this Communist society still will not get along without its prison camps. Someone has to do the grubby work; therefore perhaps we will be reprieved. And perhaps your society will allow us to polish its boots? (Excuse me, but a schoolteacher convinced me of that; it's not my own discovery.) In the few years which currently remain in the Communists' plan for development, you will probably not be able to fully come to grips with us Baptists because our foundation is stabler than the one you have." Pyotr stopped himself and began to ask himself whether he had said too much again. Or whether he had said something stupid which the KGB officer might be able to use against him. The KGB man, in turn, put down his pen and said, "So you don't want to answer my question?" "No, of course not." "Would you kindly put your hands on the table?" "Why? So you can see how upset I am? Who isn't afraid of you? I am afraid of you, too, and I am nervous! But I have certainly had worse experiences. My examining judge threatened to see to it that an awl was shoved through my heart! Does this come from the heartland of Communist humanism? Well, I am not angry at him. Under the former government this judge had probably produced many whimpers from his prisoners. A man doesn't lose the taste for decimating someone very easily. Not after he has had the

experience of being in total control of another human being." "Why didn't you turn in a complaint stating that the examining judge had exceeded his competence?" "With whom? With you? You don't have the right, either, to require me to put my hands on the table! Is that a psychological attack? It's not worth your while." "That isn't our intention at all, young man. We simply try to make it clear to you that you had better not come into conflict with the authorities. You may lodge a complaint regarding the examining judge's threat." "We never complain about the fact that you persecute and deride us. Instead, as far as I know, we believers apprise the Soviet government of the fact that its local instruments of power have behaved in an illegal manner toward this or that person. Furthermore, we inform the people of God throughout the world of these events. In this way our brethren everywhere will pray for the persecutors and the persecuted. Think of it, millions of Christians praying for you and me at this very moment! What a feeling of security and strength! All this while you are trying to rob us of the ability to pray." At this the officer angrily wrinkled his forehead. "The Baptists of other countries aren't praying for you," he said. "They conduct their affairs with our official Baptists and will never support you. We'll take care of that, never fear." Pyotr remained unmoved and assured him, "Great. It's good to know that our help doesn't come from Christians who have moved away from the gospel, but instead from God, our Father." "We'll have to talk again tomorrow concerning the Siberian believers. For today this will suffice. You may go." Pyotr said his good-byes and left the office. Trofim, Kostya, Nikanor, and Lapin were waiting for him when he returned. Pyotr told his friends of the entire conversation with the KGB officer and asked them for their opinions. He had been totally taken aback by this conversation with the KGB man. He

had expected to be left alone after getting his five-year sentence. He could not make any sense from this visit from a member of the KGB's investigations department. He was afraid he might have said something wrong in his eagerness. Semyon arrived on the scene as the friends were laying the conversation before Jesus in prayer. Semyon asked to be informed of what had happened. Then he began to smile. "Why are you racking your brains about this? This interview did not deal with the Siberian believers; the lieutenant colonel has nothing to do with them. It revolves around you, Pyotr! He had probably made inquiries about you in the prosecutor's office, in court, and at the prison camp. He wanted to know where you stood spiritually and wanted to determine whether you would fit into the KGB's ideological plan for the destruction of the church and its congregations from within. "You said he wrote down everything. Now he will discuss this with his colleagues. Tomorrow you can count on a surprise— some statement to the effect that for the builders of communism you have become a most dangerous person." "How should I then behave toward these KGB comrades?" Pyotr inquired. "To be truthful, Pyotr, you have already made some serious mistakes in your life. It is likely that the KGB people in Siberia were already involved with your case, right?" Pyotr nodded. Semyon continued, "Well, all right. These comrades have already learned a few things from us guinea pigs. We believers are the number one target for the party. They will declare total war against us. They will destroy all who have openly opposed the Evangelical Baptists, the All-Union Council of Baptists, and the Orthodox patriarchy. So you just wait. Not a year will pass without the KGB doing an experiment: a Christian in some prison camp will be executed and the leadership will observe the believers' reaction to this. Then this experiment will be repeated in order to further intimidate the believers. This fate will befall all

Christians who do not voluntarily choose spiritual death. But it's the Christian young people who are most important to the Soviet leaders. Here, too, the authorities will try an experiment of murder, even though they are fully aware that this will not discourage the young people! But on the other hand perhaps it will head them off. So the Soviet leaders will do all of these things. They will walk across our corpses. How many Christians who remained faithful to God I have seen being killed! "Therefore, Pyotr, it would have been better if you had pretended to be ignorant from your very first meeting with the KGB comrades and onward. Now try to go back and reconstruct what you told the officials from the very beginning." Pyotr went to his barracks. He could not sleep at all that night. He spent the time thinking. This was serious. If the KGB organism had been put to work in the battle against any Christian, then the situation smelled of blood.

12. THE BONDAGE OF CHRIST'S FREEDOM The following morning, Pyotr went back to work as usual. At exactly ten he was to appear before the KGB officer again. He was encouraged that the brethren knew about this appointment and that they would be able to pray for him. Pyotr thanked the Lord sincerely that He had led him to these other men. An outsider would never guess that they belonged to different denominations! But being imprisoned for the same reasons, sharing their one hope—this was what united them. There were no serious disagreements about Scripture. And when Lapin, the Reformed Adventist, made a special point of his own here and there he did not stick to it stubbornly, but was always ready to give ground. He had the gift of being able to foresee blows which were to be aimed at them by the camp administration, and being able to warn them of these before they came. He took the "prison camp Christian," Grisha, under his wing. Nikanor, the Pentecostal, in turn had the capacity to instruct his fellows in perfect humility. He demonstrated profound fatherly understanding and authority. He was able to reconcile and teach the others. Semyon, the member of the Orthodox denomination, was also a humble man. He had the gift of prophecy, recognized by them all. Thanks to his prophetic insight the group was able to keep sin from invading its circle. Trofim and Kostya had been sentenced to prison camp because of their ability to evangelize others with great zeal. Having formerly been leader of a choir, Kostya sang no matter how depressed he might be. His radiculitis tortured him greatly; yet he welcomed it as a necessary "thorn in the flesh" and asked Semyon not to pray for his condition. The brethren acceded to this request. As Kostya saw it, it was the Lord's will for him to suffer. At about ten that morning Semyon accompanied Pyotr to the operations office. He spoke to him, trying to bring him courage.

"Surely, Pyotr, to pretend to these people that now, suddenly, you have no understanding of what's been going on would be difficult. But do you know what I always notice when I consider Jesus' final hours on this earth? Christ simply remained silent instead of responding to many of the questions He was asked. If it isn't possible to remain silent, Pyotr, then defeat them with their own weapons. Point out their injustices. A Christian is allowed to do that since he is called to accuse the whole world—even its rulers—of any sins they may have committed. Everyone must repent, including this lieutenant colonel. Therefore, go with God!" Semyon patted Pyotr on the shoulder and turned away as the young man, prepared in this way and in good spirits, knocked on the door. The lieutenant colonel was waiting for him. This time he was joined by the operations officer and his second in command. In the presence of all three of these officers Pyotr had to supply answers, which they busily copied down. The first question: "In court you stated that a Christian should prefer to endure slavery of the body rather than slavery of the spirit. We find your assertion has a clearly anti-Soviet coloration. What exactly did you mean by that statement?" Pyotr looked at his judges for a long time. He had to consider a great many things before answering. He could not remain silent because silence would be interpreted negatively. The question needed a clever, exhaustive answer; otherwise.... But don't be afraid; this, too, is in God's hands, he thought. He concentrated for a long time. The officers waited patiently. Finally Pyotr gave his reply. "Christ gave His disciples the command to spread the gospel to every person on earth. The government has now prohibited us from doing that and allows us only the right to what you call 'cult ceremonies.' But every divine service must be a service to the living Christ and is clearly a call to come to Him, to God. This call is made in the name of Christ's love. Without this call to decision, religion indeed becomes an

opiate. It simply serves to obscure understanding, becomes an empty shell—or even asks for a conscious act of selfdestruction." Pyotr was interrupted by the following statement: "You claim that Christ gave His disciples the order to evangelize. But surely these orders were not meant for you believers living two thousand years after Him." Pytor answered, "We believers represent the living Body of Christ. His words to the disciples, His commission to us, are as current for us today as they were for the disciples on that day of Pentecost. Now for me personally, a question arises as to whom I should obey first when I serve the Lord. Is it Jesus Christ—or is it you? I am aware that a Christian who obeys God first can expect to go to prison in the USSR and might expect other forms of persecution elsewhere. Should the Christian obey you first, there is no need to worry about prison. He can even make a career out of his obedience to the Soviet state. But with this he becomes your slave and is no longer the servant of the Lord. A sincere Christian has no difficulty in making this decision when he becomes a convert: to live for Christ alone, to obey Him only. On the other hand, someone who seeks to use religion for his own advantage would certainly belong to your side. Those who make Jesus Christ the means to a career...." "You have no further basis for your position?" the lieutenant colonel asked. The major and the lieutenant from operations were busily taking notes. "Indeed I do. I would like to call your attention to the difficulties faced by a believer in our country. It is significant that the party has condemned the cult of personality but not the infamous law which basically placed the church in fetters and made it totally dependent on the whim of your atheistic authorities. Our constitution says that the church is separate from the state. But the state has limited the church's activities to the level of cult ceremonies. The state dictates the terms of the church's existence. This is a horrible form of spiritual slavery and

a Christian who agrees with it is crazy. Or he is a traitor. I personally prefer to be subject completely to Christ. I cannot say that I will adhere to this position my whole life long, but I ask God for the strength to remain faithful to Him alone. "At this point I want to make you aware of the following. You have signed all sorts of international conventions and declarations in the areas of human rights and freedom of education. But I do not know of a country which is more remiss in observing these conventions. In our country there is only one freedom—the furthering of communism. Because of this you obviously have no need whatever to respect any form of human rights, not to speak of freedom of education. "Let me give you an example, one of many I could give. Two young women of my acquaintance, Mariya Rempel and Petya Peters, were students at the Orenburg medical school. One not-so-nice day they were thrown out of this medical school. The reason? They were members of a Baptist congregation. "Mariya wanted to become a doctor's assistant. Her mother earned thirty rubles per month with which to support herself, Mariya in medical school, and another daughter still in high school. After the mother had, with great sacrifice, put Mariya through three years of her medical studies, this dream for her future seemed about to end. First her state educational subsidy was withdrawn and an effort was made to reeducate her. Her fellow students began to jeer at her. Her teachers gave her bad grades. But Mariya kept on, stubbornly pursuing her studies. Despite the torrent of persecution and restrictions, she had every intention of going on until she received her diploma. One day in class she was accused of not believing that man descended from the apes. She had received good grades in biology, had in fact passed her examinations in this field in her first year of study. But the teacher changed her grade and made it lower. Then Mariya was told that she had to repeat her biology tests. Mariya accepted this decision calmly since she was sure of her knowledge. 'But,' her professor said, 'if you don't sever your religious connections,

you'll fail no matter what.' Everyone in school admitted that she was a good student. But unfortunately she believed in God instead of evolution. "Tell me, must I believe that man descends from a monkey? Perhaps tomorrow scientists will tell me that man developed from a dolphin? Or from some grunting mammal?" The lieutenant colonel's reply was, "As far as the origin of man is concerned, we have a hypothesis—in other words, an assumption." To which Pyotr said, "Because of such a hypothesis, believers by the dozens are being chased out of institutions of higher learning. The Rempel woman and the Peters woman were both expelled from their studies. Their complaints produced absolutely no response from the authorities. No one spoke against the expulsion of such specialist students because of their religious beliefs. Nevertheless, a statement on the certificate which Mariya received at the rector's office indicated that she had been expelled because of 'academic insufficiency' and not because of her faith. When saying good-bye, the director, Mrs. Lvova, asked Mariya whether she would finally disassociate herself from her God. To which Mariya's reply was a firm 'no.' "When Mariya inquired whether she would still be allowed to take her examination at some time in the future, she received the reply, 'Yes, if you produce an affidavit from your Komsomol group.' Obviously, she would not become a Komsomol member merely for the purpose of receiving a diploma. It would have been the sensible thing to do, and it is done here and there, but the Rempel woman could not make a decision leading to her spiritual slavery. This is exactly what would happen to her if she fell into the trap prepared for a believer like her. She preferred to remain faithful to God, as did Petya Peters and Shura Kosoresova and many others. I could give you many other names. "Take, for example, the relations between the instruments of Soviet power and 'Y' I know of no one who has spent more time in jails and prison camps. He was originally the chief engineer of

the Yoshkar-Ole building authority, situated in the autonomous Mari territory. During his long years at Kolyma prison camp he acquired quite a lot of knowledge in heavy construction from an enormously bright engineer. This man had also roused the objections of someone in government and had been sentenced to the same camp. Y, the expert practitioner-builder, who wasn't a bad theoretician either, was highly successful at his work until one day he was dismissed because of 'membership in a religious sect.' "Well, Y set out to make a complaint regarding this violation of law. After all, you people announce to the world that in our country the civil rights of a citizen are never restricted because of his religious convictions. Thus Y made a call on a deputy of the Supreme Soviet. This representative of the people listened to him and then proceeded to heckle him: 'You are a sensible man with much ability, and yet you are rotting in this sect of yours! Why don't you disassociate yourself from all these Christian views of yours, and all roads will be open to you! Of course they were correct in letting you go.' With these words, Y saw his legally guaranteed rights vanish into thin air. "If I have a choice, I would also not choose this kind of slavery. I don't want to become a puppet in your hands for the sake of my own temporary earthly well-being. This, to my conscience, would mean literal slavery. I have been bargained for already once and for all. But it is into the bondage of freedom in Christ. For this reason, should worst come to worst, I would prefer to go to jail, get beaten up, be scoffed at, be libeled and lied to, and suffer all sorts of repression. But I will not work for you. I am always prepared to fulfill my duties as a citizen. But when it comes to surrendering the interests of Christ, then I prefer to sit in prison rather than in a post obtained through your grace. For the time being I see things this way and I don't expect to change my convictions. If I deserve more than five years' loss of freedom because of my Christian convictions, then please see to it quickly that you add something onto these years. My God

watches out for me and He will not allow worse things to happen to me than He decides upon." Pyotr became silent, his hands resting on the table. He knew that if he had made statements such as these a few years ago he would not have left the room alive. But he was a small boy in those days, and a few things had changed in the meantime. But how fundamental were the changes? Pyotr was dismissed with a gesture. He returned just in time for lunch. The sun shone into his eyes, and he stood up in the middle of the prison dwelling area breathing in the fresh, moist air. Behind the prison area flowed the Irtysh river, luring him, tugging at him with its clean air and its gulls, which came into view periodically and vanished again.

13. ENCOUNTERS WITH THE LEADER Before taps the prisoners of the twenty-third brigade had organized another big to-do. This occurred because the brigade leader had lost at dominoes and had to crawl around underneath a table. The non-political prisoners had to play for something even if only for the satisfaction of seeing the loser creep about on all fours. Pyotr shook his head and moved toward his locker in order to look for something edible. Lapin was nearby, chewing on a bread crust. "Hop to it, briga! Bend down! Come on, bend down lower or you'll knock down the table!" the domino players were cheering in the background. A new game started. Red from shame and exertion, the leader of the brigade sat down again. When he noticed Pyotr he called out to him, "The chief insists that Lapin is to go to work starting tomorrow." "And what did you say to him?" Pyotr asked, startled. The brigade leader shrugged. Lapin himself looked on, disbelieving and helpless. "Is the chief in the office?" Pyotr asked. "Yes, he is duty officer today." Pyotr made immediate tracks for the section leader's office. He knocked. Silence. He knocked again, louder. "Come in." "Excuse me, citizen natchalnik. I'm here because of Lapin," Pyotr quickly explained. "I understand that you want him to report to work tomorrow. But he can't do that. The doctor has certified that! He would, of course, not resist your orders, but it is neither just nor humane to force a seventy-year-old man to go to work! He can hardly walk!" "Quiet, you son of a dog. You've turned into a nice jailhouse lawyer! When it comes to prayer, Lapin can walk. Only when it comes to working he can't. But he is in a disciplinary work camp.

He was sent here in order to work off his debt to society! Either he disowns his God or he goes to work. Is that clear?" The young prisoner held his ground before the lieutenant's eruption and said, restraining himself, "I didn't really want to antagonize you. I'm just sorry for the old man. He sat in jail for eighteen years before being discharged. And now he'll probably die in jail, the poor man, even though the party has condemned the excesses of the old regime. What's really changed in the climate in regard to us believers?" "Nothing's changed! Prison is too good for you. We hang you or shoot you, you miserable praying rabble!" The officer jumped up, excited. "You obstruct the development of communism. It would be better if all of you had been murderers. Then we would know what to do with you all!" This was followed by a stream of curses. Pyotr waited for the lieutenant to regain his composure. At that moment, the signal for night retreat sounded. (Prisoners were forbidden to walk around fully clothed after the retreat signal.) At last the section leader calmed down and returned to his chair. Pyotr made an emphatic but quietly convincing statement. "I think it is a pity that you don't have good will toward mankind, but instead wish for some innocent members of it to die. How is it that you are so bloodthirsty? And why do you insist on seeing the old believer dead? That's incomprehensible to me. I am prepared to work two shifts; but please leave Lapin alone! You want to kill him through work. You want the dust to get to him— yet he loves you like a son! He can scarcely love you for preferring murderers to us believers, but the old man loves you quite sincerely! Don't you understand? There are too many corpses already! You're pinching off your air supply with these deeds of yours. You are in agony and you want to save something that's left, but it is almost too late. Your rescue is in Christ—listen to me: Jesus Christ! Don't cut off the very branch you're sitting on!" "O-o-o-u-t! Get out! Make it snappy or I'll kill you!" the

section leader raged. Downcast, Pyotr made his way back to the barracks. Lapin was waiting, half dressed. The brigade leader asked the question on behalf of all of them: "And so?" "I don't know. It will be a wonder if I don't end up in solitary this evening. I'm afraid I told him one thing too many." The cultural organizer of the section, himself a prisoner, came into the brigade's room, wearing his pajamas. "What in the world did you say to him? He can't stop cursing!" Pyotr shrugged. "Ask him yourself." He waited for a few more minutes, then undressed. Meanwhile the cultural organizer and the brigade leader sat on a cot and whispered to each other. Shortly the section's duty officer ran into the brigade's room. He gave the brigade leader orders to get dressed immediately and report to the section chief in his office. Pyotr rose, too, and put on his trousers and his jacket. His neighbor, Dikkij, wondered what was going on. "You know something?" explained Pyotr. "They're going to haul me off to solitary in a moment." "Not so! He cannot put you into solitary. You spoke without a witness. You can deny everything!" Pyotr merely looked at his eager consoler. The brigade leader returned, grinning. "Boy, you really lit a fire underneath that guy!" he said, amazed. "He's running up and down in his office, hissing between cursewords, 'That greenhorn! That snotnose! And that old bum! Bullets are too good for them!' And then he told me to get the man in charge of the work rosters right now or first thing in the morning and tell him that Lapin doesn't have to work." The prisoners went back to their bunks. A few moments later all 200 were snoring. Only Lapin and Pyotr spoke to each other very quietly. Then they prayed.

*** Two days later the section chief asked for Pyotr again. When Pyotr arrived the officer was seated behind his desk, pensively chewing on his pencil. When he saw Pyotr standing in the doorway, the section chief silently motioned to him to sit down. "Please tell me the story of your life," said the lieutenant. Pyotr wondered about the sudden courtesy. It was the first time he had heard the word "please." "All right. To begin with, I must tell you that you have before you a very incomplete Christian. I love the Lord, but I often stumble and fall. I came to be a believer in the following way...." He related in every detail the circumstances leading to his conversion. The officer seemed all ears. From time to time he lowered his gaze. After a while he rose and walked up and down in the office. At that point Pyotr was saying, "... About my youth. What impressed me in particular at that time was a veritable glut of anti-religious literature. I virtually gulped down anything I could get hold of in this category of books. This included Yaroslavl, Stepanov-Skvorzov, Voltaire, and a number of others. You know, there was no room left for Christ in my youthful consciousness. He didn't exist at all for me! My hopes for the future were the 'earthly paradise' which communism painted. It was my childhood dream! Even the very words caused my heart to beat faster. When I read that the party would rid itself of the enemies of communism, I was delighted. You can imagine what kind of poisonous animal would have developed from all this if...." Thoughtfully Pyotr asserted, "Yes, if something hadn't happened." The lieutenant stopped opposite Pyotr. "At school I sat on the front bench next to the teacher's daughter. In those days there were still hard times; we children were often hungry. Then the teacher, Mrs. Byrda, painted a vivid

picture of how wonderful things would be under communism. I listened to her with bated breath. This was certainly my heart's great desire: everything would belong to everyone! There would be equality!—freedom!—creative expression!—brotherly solidarity! I still love Russia today, but then—it's impossible to describe how my very soul adored this country, which actually had not been the home of my ancestors. But I had read that Russia had suffered more than any other country, and I had to become part of this suffering! I would gladly have sacrificed my life for this country's bright future, for communism. "So I listened to the teacher and believed her every word. She told us how under communism everyone would receive what he needed. How bacon would be frying in every pan! "Then the teacher paused a little to signify that she was coming to a great announcement. All of us, two dozen naive greenhorns, waited for what this prophetess of communism, this higher being, had to say. Our expectations were raised to a high pitch. "Then she said, with a glance directly toward those of us whose mothers were believers, 'And you can lick the hot frying pan clean!' "I stared at her, totally dumbfounded. The tension in the classroom broke when a bran roll came tumbling out of the desk of one of the children. The little Byrda girl next to me snickered derisively and shoved the boy as he tried to retrieve his roll. She forced him to slink back to his seat, ashamed. The teacher's daughter didn't have to eat bran or fruit tarts made out of sunflowers, as we half-orphaned children from German families were forced to eat. Some members of our group had actually died of malnutrition. I picked up the bran roll, threw it at my neighbor's head with all my might, and ran out of the classroom. "My world had collapsed! For two weeks I lay in bed with a high fever, hallucinating: T don't want that kind of communism! Mama, I don't want to lick the burning-hot frying pan! I want a piece of bacon, too, even if it's only a teeny-tiny bit.' Well, I

survived that crisis too. Do you think that Mrs. Byrda ever came to apologize? Not a trace of her was to be seen. "1 was no longer allowed to go to Mrs. Byrda's class. Fortunately, she was transferred soon after. She had actually taken a liking to me as a student. This was, after all, why I had been permitted to sit next to her daughter! "What change had she brought about in me? The mention of the word 'communism' has caused me untold pain from then on. Even in those days it was clear to me that Russia could not be saved with tales of some mythical land of milk and honey. It could happen only through someone who would be able to bind up the wounds, who would be able to console and to heal Russia of all its disappointments and sufferings. This Physician, whom you reject, is the living Christ. Not a Socialist or Communist figure of Christ which some Christian theologians speak of, but that same Jesus who rose from the dead!" Pyotr said no more. Wordlessly the section leader lowered himself into the chair behind his desk and again began to chew on his pencil, then gestured to Pyotr to leave. After this he remained shut up in his office for a long time, speaking to no one, not even by telephone.

14. HIS EYE IS ON THE SPARROW A police car came to a halt outside Trofim's home. The legal authorities had finally remembered that since they had deprived this "Baptist sect member" of his rights as a parent, his offspring had to be picked up as "wards of the state." The children had lived with this awareness for a year. Again and again one of them had looked down into the street, asking, "Is the police car coming?" Their mother and grandmother had tried to reassure them. The authorities certainly would not come for them even if daddy had indeed lost his parental rights. The children had been present when their father was arrested. They knew that he was a good man and that he had been picked up because he was a preacher. The children enjoyed singing songs of the church, and also prayed on their own. Now they would be put into a home away from mama and grandma, where daddy could not visit even after he regained his freedom. Even if he were permitted to visit them, he would not be allowed to take them back home. Trofim's children had discussed all these things and agreed that life would be unendurable without their parents. They would have to fight. They would fight to remain with mama and grandma and to be able to travel to see father in the prison camp once a year. They had become even more determined to do this after the smallest child, their little brother, had suddenly died of pneumonia. They certainly would not leave their mother now. "It's the police!" was the sudden cry of one of the children. They left the house as if blown away by the wind, climbed over their neighbor's garden fence, and vanished. The police officer and the representative of the city government's division of people's education approached the two women with a polite greeting. The court enforcement agent followed right behind them and immediately came to the point of the visit:

"Pursuant to the sentence handed down by the people's court of the city, the father's parental rights have been stripped away from him. We are now here to pick up the children. Where are they?" She looked in a challenging manner at this mother whom they well knew had just lost her smallest child. "You have no right to do that," Trofim's wife replied defensively. "My parental rights as mother of these children have not been taken away from me. I have every right to my children and I will not give them up. They were born of me, not of you." "Very well. This will be duly noted. We'll just have to strip you of your parental rights before we can proceed," was the unsympathetic reply of the court enforcement agent. After this the three officials withdrew to the backyard of the building in order to deliberate. One of the waiting policemen suddenly noticed movement behind the board fence. Searching eyes, belonging to children, were looking through the gaps between the boards. "Forward march, all of you into the house," he commanded. Not these children! Like a flock of sparrows, they flew off in several directions, later meeting at the hiding place they had prepared for themselves near the cemetery. The children did not yet understand the power of the authorities. To them the only authority was that of their parents, who had brought them up with love. After the policeman had found no trace of the children on the street or in the neighboring yard, the visitors left, their task as yet unaccomplished. When the children were still not back at dusk, the grandmother began to search for them. "Grandma, they're not there anymore?" a small voice suddenly asked. One of the children had been sent out to reconnoiter. "No, my little sparrow! Run quickly and call the others!" "But won't they come and get us during the night?" "We won't let anybody into the house during the night!" the

grandmother promised. With a mixture of caution and pride on their faces, the young troop returned home. And then they thanked God together for their preservation from this danger. The police never returned. The party apparatus was not able to start the legal action against the mother because something unforeseen occurred. But one learns from one's mistakes.

15. TO EVERYTHING A SEASON Pyotr searched for Nikanor in the brigade's quarters. After they met and chatted for a while, he became aware of a young prisoner who could be thirty years old. Yet his hair was already snow white and his hands trembled constantly. He was sitting on one of the upper bunks mending his jacket. Nikanor grasped Pyotr's sleeve. "Leave Victor alone; he is very embittered toward God." "Nikanor, if it is true that he has something against God or against us he should give us his reasons, and we must listen to his story and then help him!" Pyotr contradicted him. Nikanor told him some of Victor's story. From that time on Pyotr could not find peace when it came to the subject of Victor, the white-haired fellow prisoner. "This just will not do," he grumbled. "We have this kind of God and we cannot ask Him for justice toward this human being? If this were true we would be miserable beggars and not children of God!" Semyon and Lapin warned him against drawing premature conclusions. "Conclusions?" Pyotr retorted. "Where is that power inside us which God promised to give to His chosen people? Where is it? Is God guilty again? We simply blame God for this, but how do we look to Him? For me, Victor's current state signifies that we are not fulfilling our calling the way God wishes us to. We must chatter less among ourselves and be more like ambassadors from heaven!" Semyon shook his head and warned him, "Don't work yourself into such a state, Pyotr. Neither you nor I can do anything of our own volition. Renounce your selfishness, disassociate yourself from this, then God will reveal Himself to you in His glory! Many react to things the way you do and start off on the wrong foot. They strain themselves, over-exert

themselves, and God's strength never enters their hearts. Instead it is demonic strength. And why? Because they wanted to do something for the sake of their own personal glory. Through the words of the prophet Isaiah, the Lord talks to us about fasting. 'Behold, you fast only to quarrel and to fight. . . .' Many people have received a gift of grace and have become conceited because of it, have thought themselves to be great, and have pocketed the glory for themselves instead of giving it to God. What can God do then? Think about that!" Pyotr was ashamed and remained quiet. He, in fact, was the one who needed help from God. And he had reproached his brethren for being heartless! Discouraged, he withdrew to be off by himself. But Nikanor and Semyon followed him and helped him get over his discouragement. *** One evening several days later Pyotr went for a walk through the area. Victor came over to join him. At first he walked along silently. "Is it true that you were healed through prayer?" he asked after a while. "Yes, it is true." The white-haired man asked no further questions. They walked by the canteen and the forbidden area. "Despite everything, I don't believe that God exists! Where are His eyes? Why doesn't he see all this human suffering!" Silent sobbing shook Victor's body. Cautiously Pyotr asked, "What's wrong? If it doesn't hurt too much to talk about it, why not tell me, please?" It took two trips around the area's periphery before Victor could calm himself and talk. "This happened a long time ago. I was twenty and worked in a small city on a construction job. My mother lived in the country. During each of my vacations I went home in order to

help her. I gathered hay for her cow and wood for the winter. My father had died of his wartime injuries. "One year when my vacation was over, I said my good-byes to my brothers and sisters and to my mother and went to stand by the roadside in order to thumb a ride back to the city. A truck stopped for me. The driver let me climb up and join two others who were already aboard. Together we came to the outskirts of X. The truck driver had plans to turn off the main road before reaching the town. He stepped on the brake and I jumped off the moving truck. The driver waved good-bye to me as he drove off. The other men remained aboard. "Suddenly I realized that I had left my raincoat on the truck. But it was too late! It was a very fine coat. I had gotten it from an engineer who had bought it in another country. It cost me at least a month's salary. Everybody envied me the coat. I could have cried, so sorry was I to lose that coat. And I hadn't even taken note of the truck's license number. "Two months later I was called to police headquarters. The police chief asked me whether a raincoat he was pointing to belonged to me. I was overjoyed and said, 'Yes, of course!' "He looked at me very strangely and called in a police captain. 'I've got a case for you!' he said to him. "I had no idea of what was going on. About eight more policemen came in and started playing 'blind man's bluff with me. Without saying a word, they began to beat me up. Before I could make a sound, I was unconscious. I woke up inside a cell. Every bone in my body hurt me. "At night I was ushered into the office of an examining magistrate. " 'Aha, aha,' he said. 'You've murdered a policeman. Here, sign this interrogation transcript and then you can go-' "Me—murder a policeman? He was insane! I couldn't even chop the head off a chicken. My mother always had to perform that job instead of me! And I was supposed to have killed a policeman! I stammered something. But despite my confusion I

refused to sign the paper. So he began to hit me with a chair. And when I seemed to be bleeding enough to suit him, he let someone drag me back to my cell. "Nothing was explained to me. I could not understand what my raincoat—which they called the evidence— could have had to do with the whole affair. Once a week I was beaten, usually on Thursday night. But I still wouldn't sign the transcript. That didn't mean anything to them. After the 'preliminary investigation' was ended, I was finally given to understand the details of my misdeed: the criminal investigators had put the blame for the murder on me. Naturally I was condemned to die by firing squad. "1 became thoroughly tired of waiting for my execution. After I had filed a petition for mercy with the Supreme Soviet, I had to wait for ten more months. Can you imagine? Ten months! No one will believe me now when I tell them this. "My sentence was commuted to fifteen years in a special hard-labor camp. I spent eight years in that one and then I was sent here. "If God existed He would never have permitted this! There is no God! Hear me? Get rid of that crazy idea of yours and recant—and you'll go free!" "Now, now!" Semyon, who had joined the two, said, "Don't chop off the only branch which is holding you up. Did you pray to God? Did you take an opportunity to pray so far? Didn't you receive an answer?" Victor nodded. "A man shouldn't be prematurely disappointed in God before being disappointed in himself first," Semyon said. "That's right, in himself! Have you ever tried to listen to what God has to say to you? No? Well, then why are you accusing God, who is ready to help you and who will indeed help you, too?" He spoke so decisively that it seemed as if he had had a talk with God first and had been sent by Him to give Victor this promise. Semyon continued,"God does not always heed us Christians because we are so often full of conceit about being God's

children. Instead of listening to our prayers, He proceeds to send us all kinds of punishment. He must be listened to completely! One should not wish for anything in life but God! However, we have become used to living for our own pleasure and satisfaction and letting God wait in the backyard. It just won't work that way. God desires for us to serve Him first. Then all the rest will come to us. But we continue to live for ourselves, and God is a sort of by-product in our lives. Yet as soon as any kind of need arises we immediately begin to cry, 'Oh Lord, which way are You looking? Are You deaf, so You cannot hear us in our need?' "You may know this passage from Scripture: 'Call out to me in your need, and I will save you.' Was your mother a faithful person? Did she perhaps impart something to her children? In the day of need, when you no longer know which way is up or down, then you scream for help. But as long as things move along smoothly you seek to secure as many of the world's pleasures for yourself as possible. "God could wait until any of us lies on his deathbed. Then we would allow Him to come to us, and tell Him just the right things so that He would accept us! "It does not matter if you've gone to church all your life, even if you have preached and walked about as a martyr. 'How well I did all these things,' you might proclaim. 'Look at me, O pure ones; look at me, O you angels; I'm ready for paradise, ready to occupy a place at the right hand of Christ and to judge all the peoples!' That's how things look among many Christians at this moment. "And you expect that God would listen to someone of the world who does not ask for the forgiveness of his sins but instead bluntly asks, 'Liberate me from this imprisonment'? Why should He liberate you? So that you can take revenge on those who had you imprisoned unjustly? Certainly that won't happen! God will hear you when you have admitted that you cannot live without Him, that you cannot any longer endure without His leading, that nothing will succeed for you without that leading. First the signal

'Save my soul!' must emanate from you, and then when you are already a child of God you can say to your heavenly Father, 'Where is my place? Be it according to Your will.' " Pyotr departed. The remaining two men sat together for a long time. About one week passed. Pyotr lay on his bunk after work reading while the usual din filled the barracks. Suddenly Victor tugged at Pyotr's sleeve. "Come on, let's go outside for a little while." Lapin followed after them. They made off for a playing field behind the barracks. Then Victor said that he would very much like to pray. Amid tears he said to God, "I never believed that prayer could have so much power, and that one could receive so much joy and freedom from it!" *** Naturally all the brethren were immediately informed that Victor had turned to the Lord. Shortly afterwards Semyon suggested to Nikanor, Lapin, and Pyotr that they should join in prayer to ask for Victor's release. They thought, God has ways and means to achieve this release. But if any doubt remains, let Him not even begin. The four men resolved to tell no one about what had happened, repeatedly bringing their corporate request directly to God. Three months passed. Then one day Victor was called into the special section. He was told that he had been rehabilitated. The real murderer had confessed to Victor's alleged crime, the murder of the policeman, among several others. Stunned, Victor returned to the barracks and sat down on his bunk. At first he could not get a word out. Semyon waited until he had gotten a grip on himself. Finally Victor managed to say, "I've been rehabilitated!"

Semyon nodded taciturnly, as if he had known for a long time what would happen. Since the rest of the men had gone to work, Semyon stayed with Victor, who was sad and thoughtful. "I am being released," Victor mused, "and you have to remain here." "Don't be troubled about us. You've already sat in prison for ten years for no reason whatsoever, but we are just starting out on our terms. The most important thing is for you to begin your freedom in the right fashion. Apparently the authorities imposed no special conditions on you as far as your future life is concerned. You are being dismissed into the hands of the Lord. We are confident in our hope that He will take care of you and that He will show you your place. But do not avenge yourself; leave all that to God." "How, father, would I take revenge? I have to say it was worth it—being sentenced to death and spending so many years in prison—when I have come to know the Lord and His disciples in return! My good memories of you won't be taken away from me by anyone!" They embraced each other and kissed each other three times. Finally the young believer, his white hair shorn, walked to the control point and left the camp behind him. Then he turned around. He stood and looked at it: this monster which had imprisoned him for so many years. Only when the guards finally chased him away did he turn decisively and walk toward his new life.

16. THE LASTING WITNESS One day the deputy camp chief on duty strode into the fifth section. When he ran into Lapin in the corridor, he stopped. "Well, Lapin, you don't recognize me?" Lapin shook his head. "Come to the duty officer's room after taps," the captain said. With those words he left. The old man reported this meeting to Pyotr, Trofim, and Kostya. None of them thought that much good would come from this invitation to a nocturnal conversation. They speculated back and forth but finally placed everything in God's hands. When Semyon heard of the impending interview he said to Nikanor, "Lapin is getting all worked up about nothing. This encounter is a fortunate thing for him. He will get to eat butter on his bread for a while—and will even give us a taste of it!" At nine o'clock in the evening Lapin reported to the duty officer, who invited him to take a seat on the sofa, then sat down behind his desk. "So you're wondering why I want to talk to you, Lapin? Actually I wanted to do this sometime during the day, but the authorities and my work prevented that. Now everybody in the area is asleep, and we can have a quiet talk. I had noticed you some time ago. Didn't you live in Altaj in the thirties?" Lapin nodded. "Do you know the village named T there?" "I lived there with my family until my first imprisonment." "So it's true," the captain said, delighted. "I was born in T and grew up there." Lapin looked closely at him one more time, but shook his head. "Aren't you Lapin, one of the Adventists? Well, my father was the leader of the congregation." "Spiridonov?" Lapin cried out.

"Yes." "So it was you who recited Christian poetry with so much eagerness and who sang solos which brought tears to the eyes of everyone in the congregation?" "Yes!" the captain confirmed. "Is your mother still alive?" "No, she died soon after my father was shot. He was shot right in the village. Apparently there was too great a risk in transporting him to the city because of the poor roads. The believers might have succeeded in freeing him on one of those back roads. The police pumped a few bullets into him right in the cellar of the district Tscheka headquarters." Lapin remembered every detail. But there was no way in which he could put two and two together about how Spiridonov's son could have become a prison camp official. The officer guessed the thoughts of the prisoner. "Yes, after much deliberation and many doubts, I started work in the Gualg Camp Organization. Of course I had reasons." Lapin was incapable of imagining what those reasons could be. He sat there with lowered eyes and remained silent. The captain doodled on a blank piece of paper and also remained quiet. There was a long pause. Then a question. "What was the actual reason for the shooting of my father?" Lapin began to speak, more or less lost in thought. "Misery and suffering knocked on every door in those years. After the revolution many people formed communes and cooperative associations. The Baptists established communes, and so did we. We were rather well off. We prayed that we would be able to preserve this life of ours. The economy became stable and we had religious freedom. What else did we need? "One beautiful day, however, they chased us away from our commune. Our collective property was confiscated. The members of the commune were to be reorganized into a kholkhoz. This was one enormous nightmare. Some resisted and refused to join the

kholkhoz. Yet they had no possessions for everything had been taken away from them. "You must realize that in the commune we thought paradise had been established on earth. Life was so peaceful! Now our paradise had been shattered. How that grieved us! But we bore up under it. Your father was a very good man who endured everything without complaining—and he got the worst of it. Or was it perhaps the best? He was executed while we spent year after year panning for gold or mining coal in prison camps. Your father was one of the first persons to become a kholkhoz member, while many in the congregation continued resistance far beyond that period. Your father was accused of being a counterrevolutionary. I can no longer remember the second crime of which he was accused. And after the trial they were in a big rush to shoot him." "And how did your life proceed, father?" "I received a prison term and was shipped to Kolyma, a camp for ten thousand men. In the end, only about three hundred were left alive. Many were shot because they were too weak to achieve the minimum of forty percent of the production quota. This was considered sabotage, and they were executed. Each day dozens died from hunger while food shipments from America rotted in the harbors. Those three hundred of us who survived were told afterwards that this destruction of food had been the result of vermin activity and that the man in charge was subsequently shot. But it is also possible that he was promoted. I know—entirely from my own experience—that the KGB now has in its ranks those same people who were working for the political police in those days." Lapin stressed the words "political police." The captain, who worked under the jurisdiction of the Department of Interior, laughed. Lapin asked, "And what took place in your life after that, captain?" "The whole village accompanied my father to his grave.

Lapin, you remain in my memory because of your sermon. Weren't you put in prison right afterwards? My oldest brother vanished. Then I got into trouble myself: public home, stealing, police, detention home for children. It all pointed toward trouble until I thought about it and stuck with the home where I'd been placed. I began to study hard. Along with my work I took correspondence courses. I am married now and have five children. "In time it occurred to me to work in the management of prison camps. You must know that my older brother was arrested, and I could never find him. It's all terribly complicated, but I was certain that I would be able to track him down. He has not been rehabilitated like many others." Again he became silent. "Are you a party member?" Lapin asked. The captain nodded. "Listen, Lapin, can you find me a Bible through your Baptist friends?" "Yes, maybe. We ourselves possess only one copy of the Gospels." "You could simply give the message to someone who visits you in camp. He could have the Bible brought to my home. I would like to read it." Lapin thought how good it was that the captain asked to become acquainted with the Bible. The captain opened his locked desk drawer and took out two kilograms of butter, several kilos of sugar, and two loaves of white bread. He place all this on Lapin's lap. "Here, take this. But let's wrap it up so no one will notice that you have food with you." He handed a ragged cloth shopping bag to Lapin. But Lapin was so befuddled that he could not get a word out, nor was he able to stuff the things the captain had given him into the bag. The captain packed the things himself and led the old man to the door. "Now go, and not a word to anyone!"

Lapin stammered some words of gratitude, but the door slammed shut behind him before he could finish. The following night the brethren ate white bread thickly spread with butter. Everybody had a taste of this delicacy. Kostya's eyes squeezed nearly shut with good feelings. He had to work harder than the others and never got enough to eat. And now this festive meal! Semyon put less butter on his own bread and gave Kostya more of it. Afterwards Semyon utilized a piece of the old shopping bag to mend Pyotr's socks, since they had no yarn for mending. *** From that time onward, Lapin occasionally received small packages from Captain Spiridonov. Evidently a prison informer got wind of it. Semyon warned Lapin that he was being shadowed. The captain could receive at least two years in prison for dealings with a prisoner. Spiridonov also noticed that he was being shadowed, and was careful. Nothing could be traced to him. But for security's sake he was transferred to the south of Kasachstan. Thus all traces of the captain vanished. God would surely return his kindness a hundredfold, and the study of the Bible undoubtedly was also extremely useful to him. *** The mail arrived, and Lapin and Pyotr withdrew to their accustomed private reading place. Grisha joined them after a while. Pyotr read them a letter from Marina, then one from his sister. After that Lapin read a letter from his granddaughter, Natasha. Pyotr looked over the proud grandfather's shoulder and winked at Grisha, who returned the gesture. They enjoyed themselves together; it was even possible to have some fun on occasion!

At this point a new man joined them—a man who always looked at the believers with an expression of mistrust and displeasure. Pyotr simply had to ask the man whether he felt Christians had robbed him of his freedom. "Maybe, yes, indirectly," growled the man, whose name was Ivan. The words "Couldn't happen" escaped from Lapin. Grisha was called back into the barracks. Three of the believers remained. "Well, unknown friend of ours, tell it like it is. Tell us all of the complaints which you have accumulated against us," Pyotr urged. "All right. I'll start from the beginning. I was living on a street where for years Baptists had gathered for prayer. Across from the building in which they conducted their services lived a professor of jurisprudence. The Baptist prayer meetings didn't suit him one bit. I have no idea why he hated the believers so much. He invited us students inside his home and gave each one of us a ruble. In return for this we were to keep watch, and whenever the believers arrived we were to shoot stones at their prayer house with our slingshots. "We enjoyed that idea. We put our money together, and one of us wandered over to a hashish dealer with whom we were acquainted. We readied our ammunition for the attack. Then we all took turns smoking the hashish. "As soon as the believers began to sing, the first stones began to rain on the building—obviously it was dark by then. There were even times when stones hit one of the Christians in the face or on the head...." Ivan stopped. His two listeners wondered what led him to confide this story to them. Ivan resumed as if he had guessed their question. "You'll soon understand why I've told you this story. I began to feel sorry for you believers after an incident with a girl. "At any rate, we students became experts in the art of

beating up children and adults who were believers. We gave them no peace. They couldn't keep up with us when they tried to put in new windowpanes to replace the ones we broke. They didn't make any complaints to the police, who wouldn't have helped them anyway. In fact, the police encouraged us in this activity. "After I graduated from school and began to work I became a volunteer in the auxiliary police. At one time the police major asked to see me, along with some other auxiliary policemen. We continued to use hashish... and we continued to place ourselves at the service of the police. "One day, along with a few policemen, we stormed a house in which a prayer service was taking place. We ordered the Christians to scatter. But the sect followers kept on singing, and their leader told us that the police had no right to chase them away. "So we began to work in earnest. We reached for the young women wherever it was convenient for us to grab them, and dragged them out of the building. The regular policemen joined lustily in this. "One time I dragged a girl out of the building by her hair. She had lost a few tufts of her hair and was bleeding profusely. And as I looked into her deep blue eyes I became terribly confused. I saw so much suffering, sympathy, and love for me in those eyes! I would have liked to throw myself on my knees in front of her, to ask for her forgiveness. There was an indescribable inner glow in her. It simply devastated me inside! I could not look away from this woman. She got up, shook the dirt off her clothes, looked at me shyly, and said, 'God loves you very much.' She wiped the blood from her face while I stood there as if thunderstruck. The major called out to me, asking me why I was flirting with this praying ninny. "Well, I couldn't go on. I went home. I had the blues. I was in the dumps. I got totally drunk and ran around on the street all night long. I wanted to get even with the major for this persecution of innocent people. I didn't find him, but I broke

every window in his house. "Later a story in the local newspaper said children of believers had broken the major's windows. Yet they had caught me in the act. "At the police precinct I really got harsh treatment! They played such a game of blind man's bluff with me that I saw stars for the next two weeks. For those two weeks I was in a single cell. Then the major had me brought to him. " 'Well, how do you feel, my dear friend?' he inquired. " 'You pig!' said I. " 'You can have some more fun playing blind man's bluff,' he said. "So I got a case of goose-pimples, and shut up. " 'All right, then stop being a hooligan. You can go home, but first sign this paper.' He handed me a piece of paper, which I signed without reading what was on it. I was so happy to be set free! The major locked the paper into his desk drawer and dismissed me. "I had been home barely two weeks when a couple of us were called to our police precinct. 'All right, boys,' said the major. 'We're going to have to teach the Baptist preacher a lesson. He's getting too chummy with all kinds of other believers and is much too active in his own congregation. We'll have to follow him one evening, as late as possible, and mug him.' "Do you know what 'mugging' is? From the rear you throw a cloth over the person involved, and then you beat him up. "I opposed this. I had no desire to beat the preacher. The major looked at me threateningly and pulled out that piece of paper I had signed. He asked me to read it. It was a transcript dealing with the questioning of an accused person who had confessed to having beaten up the major. And I was accused! You know how long a jail term that could mean! Without another word I went to drum up the auxiliary police group. "Three or four days later we lay in wait for the preacher. We fell on him in a dark side street, wrapped a cloth around his head,

and began to beat him up. "Suddenly I heard him pray. He said, 'Lord, forgive these boys and have mercy on them!' Again I couldn't go on. The rest of the boys were scared away by a car which passed nearby. "I got drunk again and did something else wrong. I got caught. For beating up the major and this new misdeed, I wound up with ten years in prison at hard labor. "I know one thing. The authorities want to wipe out you believers once and for all. If this isn't accomplished with beatings, they'll use stabbings. I tell you this confidentially: everything is stacked against you. They've got enough people like me in prison camps—for committing all kinds of crimes—to make the blood run in the streets. "I, for one, refuse to take part in such things. But when you hear of a believer who's been killed outside or inside the camp, you can be sure that the authorities encouraged it. It's even possible that the perpetrators might be tried and sentenced to a maximum term. But they won't be executed. If a prisoner is involved, the authorities will simply move him to another camp where he'll do the remainder of his term. Or he might even be let out before his time is up. "Why did I tell you all this? Because if you ever run into this girl—her name is Valya—please give her my greetings and tell her that I have found no peace since that time." He rose abruptly and left. A guard was standing behind the group. It was possible that he had been listening for a long time. And they hadn't noticed him! Ivan disappeared without a trace. His story was later confirmed during a talk with Valya D.

17. INTO THE UNKNOWN One night Kostya came running toward Pyotr. "We're on the list to be transported away!" he reported, acting as if he had been taken unawares. Pyotr's heart was beating quickly. How reluctant the brethren were to have their fellowship broken up. Lapin sat on his bunk with his eyes swollen from weeping. He had learned that morning about the coming separation, but he had not wanted to spoil his friends' day. After supper they spoke together—these five, including Nikanor and Semyon—about a future meeting. That is, if they were still alive. How much time was still given to that seventy-year-old leader of the congregation? "I want to live completely in God! My heart cries for God! I wish Him to reveal Himself in my heart!" Lapin had often stated in the believers' talks. He thirsted after God, not after dead formalism, and allowed God to take charge of his life. Lapin now reached for Kostya's hand and embraced him. Then he fell around Pyotr's neck and began to weep. The embarrassed young man swallowed and gulped, patted the old man on the back, and said to him, "Now, now, brother, calm yourself. We will surely see each other again!" He didn't believe that himself. They most likely would not see each other again on this earth. Lapin began to compose himself. "Who will speak up for me at camp headquarters now?" he asked. "We will not see each other again. But if you run across Natasha, tell her that her grandpa loved her." Then he suddenly turned around and hurried from the barracks. The brothers stared at the door, bewildered. Lapin remained awake at prayer all night. Semyon had to work the second shift on this last day they might spend together. Pyotr looked him up at his place of work. They spoke of many things. Semyon's words proved to be Pyotr's salvation in the next place.

The next morning the frost mercilessly bit into nose, forehead, ears. The group of prisoners stood by the guardhouse, each waiting his turn to be searched in the order of the transport list. All four brethren were there. Finally they were called into the guardhouse. "Come on, hurry up, get going! Come on, march!" were the words heard between obscenities. "Hey, you Baptists over there, what've you got in the bag?" What could possibly be in there? A pair of socks, a few rags they had gathered up, and their food rations for three days. They had a long trip before them. Pyotr froze as he was being searched. A thin copy of the Gospel of John was sewn into his jacket under his arm! Praise God, the guard did not notice it. Outside the prison area the prisoners were made to step up in rows of three. The temperature was thirty degrees below zero. The men's feet, clad only in boots made of sailcloth, became rigid in ten minutes. At that point they felt only the pain; eventually that, too, went away. That was how their journey into the unknown began. Stolyarov also was told to ready himself for a transfer into the same general area but to a different prison camp. A group of prisoners stood around the political vicechairman and engaged in a peaceful discussion with him. Arguing with him was not recommended; you were given a quick trip to solitary for that. The prisoners could only disagree in a very subdued way if they didn't want to do the obvious and say "yes" and "amen" to everything the vice-chairman said. It was, of course, understood that if you shared the opinion of the political boss and did so with enthusiasm, your life would be eased through his influence. Meanwhile the young men around the political boss were not pleased to see that despite his above-average productivity, a man like Stolyarov spent the longest period in jail because of his beliefs. "Humanism?" they said in a belligerent way. "This is fascism!" That they should not have said.

"So we're Fascists, eh?" the political boss screamed. "You see before you the fruit of Stolyarov's propaganda! Hitler killed forty million people in around ten years. We took almost half a century to do that!" There was general laughter. The political boss, a man of limited intelligence, didn't notice that he was telling tales out of school. Or (as the prisoners thought) he had in fact allied himself with Solzhenitsyn, whose book One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich had circulated in the prison camps. The political boss may have said too much. But it was also true that he probably knew what he was talking about. At any rate, the number of people who had died in the prison camps could not have been any fewer than forty million. The political boss paid dearly for those careless words. They cost him his job. On the other hand, he also had more freedom to think as he wanted. Meanwhile he was still after his attackers. "Who said that we had fascism here? Come on, let's hear who it was!" "I said it. But if you put me into solitary I will go on a hunger strike." What a threat! In a camp in Ak-Su, someone on a hunger strike held out for nine months. Those days were over, however, for prisoners were now force-fed. The political boss called out to the guard, "Fifteen days for this loudmouth!" "But he's being shipped out!" the guard explained. "Shipped out?" the prisoner inquired in disbelief. But he felt happy about going from this camp to another; perhaps the next one might be a better place for him. When the political boss saw that he couldn't put the young man into solitary, he decided Stolyarov would have to suffer. It was clearly the older man's fault that these criminals had begun to think this way, the political boss decided. "He's being shipped out, too," the guard said. The political boss stood there looking foolish. He had been

on vacation and did not know the latest developments. In fact, Stolyarov was looking forward to being shipped away. Around evening he went to the bath attendant and inquired whether he could get some hot water. The attendant was merciful and, since sheets were being washed at that time, even permitted Stolyarov to take a steam bath although it was not his day to have a bath. Oh, how good that felt! (It was a good thing Stolyarov enjoyed it, for in the next place he would be able to take a bath only once every two months. The bathhouse was still under construction there. Every eight weeks the prisoners were led to the public baths under strict guard.) He thoroughly enjoyed whipping himself with birch branches! The bathhouse employee began to feel sorry for him and started looking for a branch which had some leaves left on it. After he received this branch, Stolyarov used it to smack his body and drive away the cold. This went on for a whole hour until someone came to put in a complaint. Stolyarov got dressed in the foyer and even had a chance to pray there. Full of a sense of wellbeing, he stretched out on his bunk back "at home" in his barracks. The next morning those to be shipped out were crammed onto a small truck and taken to the railroad station. Their prison car was waiting on a siding. Instead of getting into the car, however, the prisoners had to squat outside in the snow. After all, you couldn't let prisoners step inside their car so quickly! The commander of the guard and one of the officers from the camp began what seemed an eternity negotiating with one of the chiefs of the transportation guard detachment. Some of the prisoners began to feel uncomfortable in the snow. Yet if one of them had the courage to get up, a yell from one of the guards rapidly forced him back into a crouch—or worse, right into the snow. As a result they later enjoyed the prison car all the more. Twenty men per compartment. That could be tolerated. The prisoners had endured worse! Yes, they could remember many such occasions!

The salted herring, however, did them in. They wanted to eat something at lunchtime; that's why they had saved their dry bread. First they sniffed at the enticing herring, then they ate little pieces of it with black bread. Stolyarov denied himself the pleasure; bitter experience had been his teacher! So, wedged between the others, he ate his bread in tiny quantities while he talked with his neighbor. Naturally God was the subject of Stolyarov's conversation. What else was there to talk about? The other man wanted to know how Stolyarov could have survived the treatment in solitary despite the icy-cold nights, despite the constant hunger. Well, to fast was not to hunger. God had preserved him; and the devil, who had had other plans for Stolyarov, had simply miscalculated. The authorities had attempted to intimidate Stolyarov; yet what they had achieved was that everybody's attention was drawn to him. This gave him the opportunity to speak of the suffering and the saving sacrifice of Christ. Then the begging for water began. It was still a long time until evening, but the prisoners already wanted something to drink. Worse yet, somebody started an argument with one of the guards, who now stalked up and down the corridor with his gun and threatened anyone who asked for water. Muttering and cursing began here and there. Soon everyone in the "monkey cage" was growling or screaming. Meanwhile, the soldiers had brought in a bucket of water, setting it on the floor without filling up the prisoners' tin cups despite the fact that the guards knew many of the prisoners had eaten too much of the salty herring. "Come on, natchalnik, how about a bit of water?" The guard's answer was a blasphemy. The prisoners' language soon matched his. Stolyarov's neighbor, who suddenly felt ill, began to weep and beg to be allowed to go to the toilet. "Squat, you miserable heap!" the guard responded. But he just couldn't! This jeered-at, jibed-at heap of misery was a human being! Gorky had said the word "man" had a proud

sound to it. But here each man was just a carcass, a criminal. In recent times the authorities had begun to refer to the prison camp inmates as "production units." These "temporarily isolated Soviet citizens" were allowed to atone for their sin toward the fatherland with their labor, and it was for that reason they were called labor production units. There was so much noise in the prisoners' car that the guard's words could not be heard. The ailing production prisoner rubbed his stomach with his hands. "Oh, let me out, natchalnik. Please let me out, for God's sake!" "Of all things, 'for God's sake'!" the guard jeered, pointing his pistol at the sick man. Stolyarov, depressed, sat there praying silently while the noise continued. "Men!" one of the prisoners screamed. "Pay attention, I order you! We're going to make this car sway back and forth. So be quiet and pay attention to what I'm saying!" The din inside the car died down. Stolyarov could hear one prisoner cry, others were panting and gasping. And at regular intervals, "Right! Left! Right! Left!" First the men threw their weight against the outside wall of the car, then against the divider which separated the compartment from the corridor. And they actually achieved something with their efforts! The car began to sway gently—first to the right, then to the left. The guards kept right on pacing up and down in the corridor, grinning at the futile exertions of "those fools!" At times the entire weight of eighteen bodies pressed down on Stolyarov and the sick man; at other times they were free of the weight. The car began to sway more and more. The sergeant came running and screamed at them that they were to stop immediately. Finally an officer appeared from somewhere and brought the mob to its senses, saying, "Stop this immediately! All of your demands will be met!" The prisoners squatted down again.

"This one is to go to the toilet immediately. Everyone is to receive water! Sergeant, follow me!" the officer commanded, then left. Stolyarov's neighbor went off. The men finally got drinking water. "Boys, we're crossing the Irtysh River!" There were no windows in this car, of course. But on the corridor side were tiny windows covered with steel grating which permitted a view of tiny slices of what was passing by on the outside. The train quickly crossed the river. Farewell, Irtysh, Stolyarov thought. We've worked along your shores for many years. We felled trees in the Taiga forest, then dragged them to your shoreline. How many Christians are buried along your steep embankments! Now they could see only large areas covered by snow. But in the railroad car the air was stifling. *** Another shipment of prisoners—to somewhere else. The prisoners began to thaw out slowly from the bitter cold which had overcome them. They were being put on the suburban train which would take them to the railroad station where their prison train awaited them. Kostya rubbed the small of his back. He had had no treatment for it for the entire year. And he could have screamed from the pain in his feet! He had gone through this before: sitting by the fire rubbing those frozen feet with alcohol or vodka or even snow, and fainting because of the pain. The prisoners were experiencing this again, moaning through clenched teeth, cursing. When the prisoners arrived at the railroad station they were let off on the platform ten yards away from a regular train. This turned out to be unpleasant for the prisoners. The normal passengers hurried past them, staring at them with a mixture of contempt and sympathy. Why were these prisoners squatting in

the snow alongside the station? The huge German shepherds, unable to stand sitting down in the cold any longer, got up on all fours and stared viciously at their victims. They had been trained to knock down a man with one leap. Until the master arrived, however, no prisoner dared move. The dogs had the same privileges as the guards. But the prisoners had to squat. When Kostya could no longer stand the pain and tried to get up, groaning, he quickly heard, "Hey there, sit down! Immediately!" "I can't sit anymore, natchalnik. I've got radiculitis!" "Sit down, understand? Or I'll sic one of these dogs on you!" Everyone knew that if the dogs were set on the prisoners the guards would also send salvos of machine-gun fire over the men's shorn heads, forcing them to lie in the snow for two or three hours. "Endure it, Kostya," Pyotr whispered to him. No one could really sit anymore, and the men couldn't feel their feet anymore either because of the cold. On top of all that, a strong wind whipped granular snow right through their clothing —their sweaters, everything. They would not receive new down jackets until they reached the other camp. They had to spend a whole hour sitting like this. The criminals had cursed out the entire world by the end of that hour. Finally the command came to conduct the prisoners to the prison car on the siding. Showing these prisoners to the civilian travelers was not good publicity! The officers really should have hidden the machine guns and dogs; the prisoners could not have escaped anyway. At least the officers chased the civilian travelers into the station building. Naturally the civilians kept right on peering at the prisoners through the windows.

18. NEW CAMPS, NEW CUSTOMS After three days' travel Pyotr, Kostya, and the other prisoners were told to get off the train. The railroad car and the immediate surroundings were brightly illuminated by the headlights of several automobiles. The family names of the men were called out and they were ordered to form five ranks. The prisoners had expected to be driven to the camp. Instead they had to walk the three kilometers to the camp. During the entire stretch, the road was illuminated by the headlights of the automobiles crawling along behind them. The deputy commander, resplendent in fur coat, felt boots, and a cap with earmuffs, received the men. Many of the prisoners must have thought, Were I a free man, I would really enjoy taking that man's clothes away; it is so cold! At this point the object was to survive. As soon as they arrived at the camp the men went to the quartermaster's department to receive the felt boots they yearned for, as well as the padded cotton jackets and the mittens which were also stuffed with cotton. Who would need a well-heated building now? Kostya and Pyotr went outside in order to reconnoiter for a concealed place for their prayer sessions. They scouted the dark barracks next to theirs. The unused barracks had stacks of disassembled bunks in it. Snow had drifted in between the stacks. This was where they chose to kneel down to pray. Kostya, being the older one, gave the final prayer. He was still occupied in intercession and giving thanks when someone shone a lantern in his face. "Believers in God?" came the amazed words. "Why are you kneeling in the snow? Will your God be honored if you pray to Him in the snow?" Kostya wanted to conclude his prayer. "Get up!" screamed the man who had interrupted them.

"Why didn't you come to attention when I entered? When a Soviet officer enters a room the prisoner is required to come to attention immediately! If you don't respect me, at least respect the Soviet uniform!" "We do indeed respect you, citizen natchalnik. But we were praying and couldn't simply stop in the middle." "What is dearer to you anyway—this God of yours or the Soviet uniform?" His flashlight illuminated Pyotr's happy face. "What's there to grin about?" "That we live so splendidly in Russia. We're even forbidden to pray!" "You must rise in the presence of an officer!" "We did get up," Kostya said calmly. "Now—what is dearer to you: the Soviet uniform or God? Answer me!" Both of the believers were cold and they felt this discussion was senseless. They wanted to read the expression on the officer's face to see whether he, too, was tiring of it. "Not only is God dearer to us than a Soviet uniform; He is dearer to us than life itself, citizen natchalnik!" Kostya stated. "Aha! Buried in that is the betrayal of our Soviet people's interests! You show typical anti-Sovietism! For this reason you do not keep in step with Soviet society, and you hinder the progress of communism! Many upright believers have joined the effort to build our society. 1 n time they and their leaders will understand the absurdity of their belief in God. On the other hand, types like you go against the stream, working against us. You are extremists! We ought to clean house and be rid of you!" "Yes, if the old government would rise again,..." came the ironic reply from Pyotr. "But you, citizen natchalnik, standing here in your warm overcoat, are enjoying yourself while we slowly freeze. Permit us to go to our barracks." The officer was well on his way to releasing a stream of profanities when he became aware of someone standing behind him.

"What's going on?" "These men were actually on their knees praying and did not come to attention when I, a Soviet officer, came upon the scene," explained the deeply offended officer. "All right, go to your barracks," the newcomer ordered Kostya and Pyotr. "Have you received all you need? But I wouldn't advise you to pray in the snow." Kostya and Pyotr walked off, not knowing how long the discussion with the operations officer might have gone on had the deputy commander not appeared. On their way to the barracks Pyotr told his brother the story of how during one whole winter several years earlier three Siberian youths had met from six to seven every morning for prayer. They had risen early and skied into the forest before school. They had met in every kind of weather, in temperatures of from thirty to forty degrees below zero. None of them had ever become ill, not even with colds. What clothing had they worn then? Even the current prisoners were better dressed than those civilians had been. And God had given that Siberian territory such a spiritual awakening that there was not enough room in private homes to house all the youthful worshipers, who had then also gone into the woods to pray. *** The prisoners were unable to fall asleep during their first night in the new barracks. They had received their bedding and had made themselves comfortable. They lay down underneath their blankets still wearing their felt boots, padded jackets, and caps. But their teeth continued to chatter with the cold. Kostya and Pyotr got up and wandered around inside their barracks. At times, exhausted, they lay down on their bunks and nodded off, but never for long. They were happy when they were awakened and the day began. Kostya was put into the carpentry brigade. Pyotr, however,

was assigned to the earth-moving detail. During the first three months the prisoners received thin soup as their meal three time a day. Since there was little or no bread and since no grits were doled out at noontime, the men were constantly hungry. Whoever had been able to hoard some money was better off now. The prisoners were able to buy butter and sugar, though for triple the normal price. The purchases were made through the hired drivers who naturally had to be properly paid for the risk they took in procuring food for the prisoners. They would have been severely punished if someone had caught them. For the most part, though, the prisoners were dependent for their food supply on their host's table. The only enjoyment which eating brought to them was the warmth they felt for a while after they ate. The soup always came into the canteen very hot. With the cold temperatures both inside and outside the barracks, nothing brought greater pleasure than spooning in the steaming hot soup. Kostya felt so good after eating that he narrowed his eyes like slitted cat's eyes. When he had finished eating, he licked his spoon clean—almost like a cat—and stuck it in his pocket. It was generally agreed that washing the spoon was unnecessary. The lack of roads leading to the camp caused the long lapses of time between bread deliveries. The distance to the nearest town was at least two hundred kilometers. And with snowstorms always threatening, no driver dared to drive that distance merely to get bread. The camp's management could not agree with the baker in the neighboring village on the "special way" bread had to be baked. The end result was that the prisoners received only four hundred to five hundred grams of bread per day instead of the required seven hundred grams. Whenever real bread was available there was a major celebration. The shipment of prisoners which included Kostya and Pyotr inaugurated the new camp. After them came batch after batch of additional prisoners. The earth-moving detail had to use sledgehammers, chisels, and crowbars to excavate foundations

for the new buildings in soil frozen to a depth of between three and four feet. For this reason the excavations proceeded very slowly. A couple of the stronger men did manage to raise the heavy hammers above their heads, but most lacked the strength to bring them down hard on the wedges. As a result the worker often tumbled to the ground along with his tool. Kostya and Pyotr had caught heavy colds during their trip; but neither Kostya, with his radiculitis, nor Pyotr, with a temperature of over 100 degrees, was freed from work duties. The woman physician inspected the thermometer and laughingly said to Pyotr, "Not yet 102 degrees!" That was all. "Next patient!" The next one had a temperature of over ninety-nine degrees. "Not yet 100! Next!" Pyotr and Kostya did not die of their fevers. For this they could thank the camp doctors, who taught the prisoners how to stand their diseases manfully. Some of the patients did die and needed to be buried, but one ought never to be too squeamish about such things. *** Perhaps many of the prisoners didn't die because of their powerful desire to have one more meal in their lives from which they did not rise hungry. The officer in charge of the construction section owned a sweet little dog. One nice day he took the dog along with him to work, knowing full well that it would have been smarter not to do so. On this final day of the month, however, it was the officer's job to compute the month's production quotas. To do this he had to sit in his office until late evening, and by then he would be cursing the brigade leader. All this would proceed more pleasantly in the presence of his little four-footed friend. In addition, since the officer's wife could not be persuaded to exchange life in the city of Gorky in favor of this place, the dog would have been forced to stay home alone all day long. Here the

animal could lie between his master's feet. At first the section chief did not take much notice of the fact that the dog had disappeared. After all, the little animal was housebroken and had probably gone outside to look for the nearest pole. At that moment, however, the little dog was already roasting on a fire which a few prisoners had started in a trench. Several other men stood watch. It was the custom for guards to close one eye to these fires; after all, the temperature had a way of descending down to forty degrees below zero, and even lower. The work had to continue despite the cold. Barracks were needed for the prisoners. And the prisoners were in turn needed for the construction of heating plants and foundries, as well as for working the uranium and gold mines. Helping hands were needed, and more helping hands. For a long time it had been impossible to lure voluntary labor to the new territories. Those times of which Krylov had written— when people still believed in his fairy tales—were over, as the youth of the nation had a way of saying. Too many young people had fallen victim to the wolves, to the frosty climate, and to other outrages and crimes. Let us return now to the little dog who was being prepared to become such a tasty repast. Someone had even "requisitioned" some salt at the canteen. Was the feast being prepared in an iron pot? On, no! It was being done according to an old Roman recipe: the animal was skinned, gutted, packed in a coating of wet loam, and cooked in its own juices. While its owner (who was becoming disturbed) embarked on a search for the animal, the prisoners were already in the process of breaking the hard shell which encased the animal. The dried mud came off in small chucks, revealing a crinkly surface of meat. What a lovely odor ascended to the noses of those surrounding this scene! Pyotr sat nearby on two spade handles, the saliva flowing in his mouth. He was not able to leave the scene. If someone were then to surprise the banqueters, Pyotr would surely be considered a traitor. His buddies did offer him a juicy thigh, but Pyotr

resisted the temptation. "Did you perhaps see a cute little dog with fleecy white fur?" the construction section's chief inquired of Pyotr. "I haven't seen a single living dog!" Pyotr answered. It was fortunate that the chief did not think of asking about a dead dog. But the thought that by this time his darling could be lining the stomachs of some hungry prisoners had not occurred to him. The other prisoners grinned at Pyotr's reply. Had he turned them in, woe to him! One day the sledgehammer would have risen in the air above the wedge but would accidentally have landed on Pyotr's head. Such coincidences occurred in the camp often enough. Pyotr fell asleep quite late that night. Kostya stayed awake even later, reading a book. A shipment of bread was expected, and rumors said an extra portion of a pound per person was to be distributed. Pyotr also intended to wait, but after swinging a heavy sledgehammer all day he couldn't stay awake long when he lay down on his bunk. As a result he didn't hear the cries of "Hooray" when the bread shipment arrived after midnight. He did not notice that Kostya had put his extra ration on his night table and had set about eating his own extra portion on the spot. Finally Kostya could stand it no longer. "Wake up, Pyotr, the bread has arrived!" "What? What kind of bread? Why?" Then he spotted the piece of bread on his table and let himself fall back onto his pillow, exhausted. "Well, you sure aren't smart, Kostya. Why did you wake me up? You could have eaten your own bread in peace, and mine would have been there for both of us to share for breakfast!" At the same time he said to himself, "Oh God, I don't dare look at the bread!" He lay awake for a while longer, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep. His stomach growled in various musical keys and his hands virtually reached out on their own for the bread. It was as if an electric current went through them. They drew back, then they grasped. It was still warm! Why?

"They brought it from the village bakery! It's regular 'free man's bread'!" That did it! A few minutes later Pyotr's bread had vanished. It melted in his mouth as deliciously as if it were the finest pastry —finer than the finest pastry! Now, he said to himself, I'll go to sleep. He had hardly awakened the next morning when he was called to the operations office. A long line of prisoners stood outside the door in the corridor. They were all there for the same reason. "Didn't you see who ate the dog?" Pyotr started to think. What should his reply be? Today the operations officer was sober and very courteous. How could he be made aware that prisoners needed to eat, too? As if the operations officer didn't know that himself! But his attitude was, "There's nothing we can do about your hunger; stick it out until spring and maybe there'll be an agreement with the local bakery." But Pyotr had to speak without lying, and he dared to do it. "Citizen captain, I judge these matters from a different viewpoint than you do. I come from a different kind of people. If I cannot keep someone from doing wrong, then I hand him over to the love of my Lord, who will then deal directly with the person involved. And once I have handed him over to the judgment of my God, I cannot hand him over to your courts until God has had His say. Therefore, excuse me, but for personal reasons I cannot name these people. I have not received any other instructions from God." Suddenly the officer let go such a salvo of obscenities that Pyotr had to shrink back. "Do we have to punish crimes or not?" the operations officer said threateningly. "Certainly. But it is unjust if one breaker of the law punishes another. The people ate the dog because you did not give them the proper legal ration of food but still required them to perform the usual amount of work."

"We have explained to everybody that because of the bad weather, the delivery of foodstuffs is difficult. You're also human beings and you must have at least that much understanding." "Certainly, and I am not about to lodge a complaint. But when someone is hungry and an unbeliever it must be difficult not to revolt and eat dogs. The ten thousand soldiers who are in the construction battalion here are supplied with rations, aren't they? And isn't there enough food in the village grocery store or in storage to feed all of us in the prison area? After all, you don't allow a very large portion for each prisoner anyway!" The operations officer stepped right up to Pyotr and, giving him a withering glance, said, "Should I hear that you have told anyone else what you've just said, I will see to it that you are immediately prosecuted to the limits of the law for sedition! And now, get out!" After the episode with the dog each day was again like every other. Personal visits from relatives were not permitted for the time being, since there were no visiting facilities available. Otherwise the yearly visit would have offered a change in routine. Such a visit would have filled a prisoner's days with anticipation beforehand and with much joy for a long time after, and with sorrow, too. To be sure, the prisoners had other causes for sorrow. One time Kostya was unable to report to work because of his radiculitis, and was thrown into solitary for it. Yet thanks to the intervention of the brigade leader he was released again that same evening. Right from the first day the two Christians had been aware of an informer spying on their activities. Later they learned of another one, and yet a third. Finally Kostya's section leader (before he was transferred for further training) told Kostya in confidence that no less than ten tattletales had been set to spy on the believers. A new prison camp, new habits!

*** New difficulties awaited Stolyarov in his next prison camp, too. His last camp had rid itself of him; was everything going to start all over again in this new place? His extensive record raised the curiosity of the vice-chief of the camp, who was on duty receiving the shipment of prisoners. After noticing in Stolyarov's records at least one hundred punishment entries for his Christian propaganda and for his refusal to work on Saturdays, the vicechief had Stolyarov assigned to Poluyanov's section. Poluyanov had the reputation of not merely throwing a prisoner into solitary or withdrawing all rights from him. Poluyanov was tall and broad-shouldered, a trained athlete. And he liked to beat up people. Without much provocation he would find an excuse for a "friendly" boxing match with a prisoner. If someone was caught redhanded in some misdeed, and if Poluyanov was called upon to decide his fate, the officer's hands literally began to itch. Such a prisoner would be invited into Poluyanov's office. Poluyanov would then lock the door and ask, "So, citizen production worker, do you want solitary or would you prefer a taste of my fists?" The prisoner would look at the major's large fists, and cold sweat would begin to pour down his back. Yet solitary wasn't alluring either. It was winter, and the disciplinary bunker was an icy hole. One could catch tuberculosis there in ten days. No, better the fists. "Go ahead, hit me natchalnik. But not too hard!" Great! The voluntary recipient of a lesson by beating was ready for the fist's impact. Each blow was unexpected but well aimed. Pow! The prisoner found himself under the table. If things went off fairly well and the prisoner didn't lose consciousness, then he could get out. The major then smiled his victory smile, squeezing the victim's hand. Stolyarov was confronted by this type of situation his very

first Saturday in the camp. He would not go to work; this day belonged to the Lord. His section leader was delighted and already looking forward to the confrontation. But to knock out this elderly sect worshiper inside a locked office wasn't exactly too thrilling. It would be better if he had a chance to show everybody else what he was made of! What nerve this prisoner had to come trundling into camp with his long list of offenses against the regime! I'll beat that disrespect out of him, and quickly, the section chief thought. This camp is full of repeat offenders, and this believer has certainly been blatant in his prior offenses. I've converted one man before him; I'll bring this one to reason, too. This major had self-confidence! "All right, all right, Stolyarov, tell us exactly why you refuse to work on Saturdays!" Poluyanov roused the believer during morning formation in full view of all the officers and guards. A couple of brigades were yet to be sent off to work. If the prisoner changed his mind he could still go with them. "I have made a vow before God to devote Saturday and Sunday to God alone and to do no other work besides this." Stolyarov made his explanation solemnly A heavy blow descended on him! Stolyarov flew head first into a snowbank. It was a blow of the finest order The prisoner lost consciousness. But the snow brought him to very quickly, of course. As a consequence Stolyarov did not have to go to solitary. But that was his first taste only.

19. THE BURIAL After seeing his younger friends shipped away Lapin was put into the invalids' brigade. Yet when spring came even the invalids were put to work shearing pelts. The dust and odor bothered the old man a great deal. And even without that he suffered from constant headaches. Once in the midst of shearing a pelt he dropped the shears and pressed his hands to his head. As he later explained to Grisha, he was seeing red circles dancing around in his head. So with Lapin leaning on Grisha they walked back to the barracks. Semyon urged Lapin to see the doctor. The old man agreed. He was freed from work without any difficulties. From that time on Lapin got up only for lunch. Grisha brought breakfast and dinner to him in the barracks. Semyon and Nikanor visited the sick man every day. Before long Lapin suffered a stroke. The intern examined him at the barracks and ordered his transfer to the infirmary. Lapin actually should have been discharged from the camp because of his illness. But he was no common criminal. A thief who had committed murder would have had an easier time getting sent home than this leader of a religious congregation. The head of the infirmary examined Lapin and said to him, "You certainly will not live much longer. And if the court system had any sense they would surely let you return home, but...." The brethren came as often as possible to pray and talk with the sick man. Lapin asked his friends to convey his greetings to his family, namely his granddaughter Natasha and his elderly wife, Nyura. Soon he was no longer able to speak, and shortly thereafter he died. ***

For some reason an informer disclosed the camp administration's intention not to notify Lapin's relatives of his funeral. After what had happened at the burial of Nikolay Chmara, a believer from Kulunda who was murdered in prison, the chief of operations apparently worried that Lapin's family or congregation would apply for an investigation into the cause of his death. This would certainly create problems for the camp administrations. The story of Chmara had spread throughout the country and had caused even nonbelievers to become indignant. This happened despite the efforts of the newspapers to cover up the story and to turn the situation around and accuse the believers of slandering the government. But the facts could not be obliterated. As a result of the informer's actions, the brethren knew that the camp administration did not intend to notify Lapin's wife of his death until after the burial had taken place. So the believers conferred about how they might be able to send a telegram to Lapin's daughter in Tashkent, with whom Nyura was now living. One of the brethren came up with two rubles which he had kept carefully hidden. A trustee prisoner was willing to help, but this would not be a simple undertaking. The trustee's brigade was unloading coal at the railroad station. Obviously none of the prisoners received permission to leave their place of work. One of the guards watched carefully to see that none of them drank wine or vodka and that they didn't loaf. How could one of them get all the way to the post office to send the telegram? By evening the trustees were still busy unloading sheep pelts which were to be taken to the camp by truck. The friendly trustee asked one of the truck drivers to help him send the telegram. This man drove his truck straight to the post office in the center of town where, with the aid of a telegraph operator whom he knew, he sent off a night letter to Lapin's relatives. He understood the Lapin situation; his own father had lost his life somewhere during the Stalin regime. He had no idea where his father lay buried. By the next morning Mrs. Lapin and her daughter and son-

in-law had arrived and were standing at the camp's gates. They had flown north on the first available plane. The head of operations nearly exploded with anger when he saw Lapin's relatives. He ordered an immediate investigation as to how and through whom the news of Lapin's death had reached his relatives. Many of the camp's informers were drawn into the investigation. Then the head of operations ordered each of the believers to report to him individually. They remained silent to a man. Next he telephoned the camp's administration. The chief of the camp was not opposed to giving Lapin's remains to his relatives and had already given his permission. The operations chief remonstrated with him. He was afraid of the consequences and did his utmost to see that Lapin was buried right there in the camp's own cemetery. There many of the prison camp's guilty secrets lay buried forever. Certainly it wasn't necessary to remind Soviet citizens that many were currently ending their days in the state's institutions. There might ultimately be protests, but few questioned the situation publicly. In every family some relative had surely been in some sort of jail or prison camp. "Sitting in jail"—people had actually gotten used to the expression. But if only the prisoners had been able to sit\ Even the seventy-year-old Lapin had been put to work. It was certainly possible that the exertion had led to his death. Those of his fellow prisoners who were believers were comforted by the knowledge that God had freed Lapin from his painful existence and had taken him home to His kingdom. Nikanor and Semyon washed Lapin's body and placed him in his coffin in a new prison uniform. Even in death their brother remained the property of the prison camp! Just as the coffin left the prison area religious music was suddenly heard! A trumpet was playing, "Our years move toward their end / They float away unnoticed / Trouble and sorrow are carried off / With life when it is ended."

In earlier days Kostya had often sung this hymn. Once a musician in the camp's brass band asked him to write down the notes. Since then the musician had practiced the melody. Now this hardened criminal tendered the old congregation leader this last honor in his own personal way. What a solemn occurrence it was! Surely God would repay a hundredfold this man's courageous act of love toward a dead worker in God's vineyard. The camp's officialdom finally indicated that the coffin would be released to Mrs. Lapin on the condition that she take it directly to a cemetery upon arrival in Tashkent, and that not even a single believer be present at the burial. But how could the members of the congregation stay away from the interment of their shepherd? Lapin had been in jails and prison camps for half of the forty years he had dedicated to God's service. And after all that, no one would be permitted to accompany this sufferer to his grave? Lapin's relatives could not attest in writing that no member of his congregation would come to the burial. Thus it was decided that the coffin would have to stay within the prison camp's jurisdiction. The matter was distressing to the commandant of the prison camp. He was near the age of retirement himself and knew that he also must soon expect death. He put up his hands in a helpless gesture. What could he do? Lapin was buried in the camp cemetery. His wife looked silently at the coffin of her husband with whom she had shared such a hard and sacrificial life. She had born him seven children and raised them as faithful children of God. And she had raised them largely in Lapin's absence, since he had spent so much of their married life in prisons and other institutions. Lapin's daughter and son-in-law wept and bit their lips. Slowly the horse pulled the cart containing the coffin of this "criminal," who despite everything had not seen the "better way," and who even in his coffin was still considered a menace by the atheists. The officer who escorted the "prison camp property" became embarrassed in the presence of the toil-worn old woman and the

younger married couple. He knew full well that this victim of the camp's cruelty—as well as so many others—must remain on his conscience. For that reason he had no words of comfort. Instead he stood there grumbling and scolding with his head down. Mrs. Lapin looked directly at the officer with her face full of grief. He stopped his grumbling. When the group approached the city limits, the officer ordered the trustee prisoners to close the coffin. The brethren first placed a few flowers into it to signify that Lapin had tried hard to be a fragrant witness to God's grace. Nyura, brooding over the coffin, relived many incidents of their life together. Few women were forced to endure so many separations from their husbands as she had. Her Vanya had been convicted to serve a total of fifty-nine years in prison and had actually served twenty of those years. And at the age of seventy he had died before completing his last term. God had commuted his sentence. Lapin had received limited amnesty several times before but was found guilty again each time because he acted to protect his flock from the influences of the world. He had already known what he was facing when he proposed to Nyura shortly after the Russian revolution. His words had contained the following conditions: "You must know, my dearest one, that I belong entirely to God and that I must expect persecution because of my convictions." "What are you saying, darling? After all, the government has promised full freedom for believers!" So he had cleared up his beloved Nyura's mistaken beliefs about this "full freedom"—about its background, conditions, and consequences. Oh, yes, he had set it all out clearly for her. "I foresee indescribable suffering for the people of God," he concluded. "In fact, I foresee it for the members of all Christian denominations. The government will prohibit all evangelizing very soon and then.... "Therefore, Nyura, if you marry me you must know that first of all I belong to the living God. After that I belong to the church.

Then prison will take away parts of me. And only after all these things can I belong to you. If you agree to these conditions, then let us unite our two lives forever to serve God together." She had agreed to this and had become his faithful companion in marriage. She had never reproached her husband for the hard lot which had become hers, but had brought up their children silently, without complaint, and had given him her love and sweet disposition. Now as she walked behind the coffin she had only the one wish: to be able to rest beside her Vanya. Her Vanya! And to live in peace forever. The coffin, once again open, rested next to the grave. Nyura bent down and kissed Lapin's forehead to say her good-bye. Then she suddenly felt a stabbing pain in her heart, and nothing more after that. But her hour had not yet come. She accepted this, too, without complaint.

20. A SUSTAINING VISION Stolyarov had received a six-month sentence in the disciplinary barracks, but was reprieved after serving half of the period. Of course he knew that this "amnesty" really had changed nothing. The very first Saturday after his return to the residence barracks, Stolyarov again announced that he could not work on the Sabbath because of his convictions. This irritated the deputy camp commander. He would have to find a new, more effective form of punishment for this disobedience of Stolyarov's. When the brigade fell out for morning roll call, two guards were ordered to bring Stolyarov. He was sitting on his bunk fully dressed, aware of the likely consequence of his refusal to work: a return to the disciplinary barracks. Spring was on its way, but in northern Kasachstan winter did not seem ready to depart. The snow had started to melt but a good deal of fresh snow had fallen during the night. This would make the task of prodding Stolyarov to work rather difficult. The guards ordered Stolyarov to come to the door. There one of the guards hit him so hard with his fist that Stolyarov tumbled down the steps. But since he was accustomed to such treatment Stolyarov quickly came around, dusted off the snow, and stood up. A second blow to his left shoulder knocked him off his feet again. This time he landed in a pile of snow. Then a kick told him that he was to get up. The guards really had it in for him! This brutality created grumbling among the brigade's prisoners, who cursed as they witnessed the mistreatment. But the camp's officers were standing right there and could easily order additional punishment for any prisoner caught "insulting the administration" or "committing an act of sabotage." A specific paragraph of a law which authorized such punishment had only recently become effective. It contained the threat of prison for

eight to fifteen years or even death by firing squad. Of course one or two prisoners who preferred to remain silent during the brutality to Stolyarov could later present a petition to the state's attorney accusing the camp of abuse of a believer. But such a petition would get stuck in the political machinery, and the sender of such an accusation probably would not be able to avoid his due punishment: fifteen days in solitary. Now the entire brigade was loaded aboard a truck. When this was accomplished the guards tied a rope around Stolyarov, then fastened it to the truck. The rope was short enough to keep Stolyarov's head from hitting the ground. The driver, a trustee, saw all this from the driver's compartment and was deeply upset by it. It had become his lot to drag a human being to work behind his truck! This was a human being whom he loved, and who loved everyone, who was old enough to be the father of the driver. Stolyarov at times did as much work in five days as three other men. Actually the prisoner at the steering wheel thought Stolyarov, who had mastered several lines of work, had earned his two days off regardless of whether or not his Christian convictions prevented his working on Saturdays and Sundays. It wasn't that he shirked his regular work assignment or that he pretended to be unable to work. During his five days of work each week, Stolyarov rested only at lunch time or when it was time for evening formation. Full of hate, the driver heard the guards, without any scruples whatever, snickering as they tied Stolyarov to the back of the truck. It wouldn't do if the prisoner managed to escape on the way! To make sure this did not happen, three guards were to point guns at the man during the trip. The driver started the engine. He gritted his teeth and drove very slowly, assuming that Stolyarov would be able to walk behind the truck. Instead Stolyarov wound up being dragged through the snow. He wasn't, after all, in the same excellent health as the well-fed German shepherds who patrolled the camp at night.

"Don't drive through the village! Drive around it," ordered the officer, who sat beside the driver. "Why? It's a shorter distance when we drive through the village," the driver argued. He would have liked the inhabitants of the village to see this spectacle. Yet this was precisely what the officer was anxious to prevent. From the moment he took over the supervision of a number of prisoners, he became responsible for their lives. Should this event become notorious and should someone protest, the officer, and not the administration, would bear the blame. The camp administrators would innocently wash their hands of the matter and profess to know nothing. The driver made a detour around the settlement, making an effort to drive through soft snow. When the driver a year later questioned Stolyarov about his feelings during the drive, Stolyarov answered, "I saw the blue sky. And think, brother, of what I saw there: Jesus Christ seated at the right hand of the Father. I became filled with such joy and bliss that I couldn't feel that I was being dragged behind the truck! I did not feel the snow creeping into my jacket and trousers. I had the sense of being carried on the wings of angels and of Christ watching over me to see that nothing happened to me. I had never previously encountered such a state of ecstasy! I was so grateful to all those who had tried to hurt me in the name of Christ! After all, they jeer at me for His name's sake! I wanted to stand up and call out to all of them-the guards and the soldiersT love you, beloved people!' I was so indescribably happy at having seen the face of my Lord. And think of it, brother: Jesus Christ, who stood at the right hand of God, followed my progress toward the work area with such a loving glance that I was disappointed that the trip was over so quickly." "And you had no revulsion against the people who tied you to the truck, who beat you up and laughed at you?" the driver asked. "Not at all. Never! We have to have sympathy for them. They carry out the will of the enemy of every human soul. They

are much more unfortunate than we are." "Stolyarov, would you want the believers outside to find out about this?" "If it results in the glorification of God and not of me, and if it contributes to the fact that people pray for-I repeat, pray for— these persecutors of Christ instead of arousing hatred for them, then yes!" To protect Stolyarov the driver covered the entire route at the speed of walking, and the officer in charge let him have his way. Once they arrived at the work area, the guards untied Stolyarov first so that the prisoners from the truck would not accidentally jump down on top of him. He got up and began to shake the snow off. He had to remove his felt boots and shake the snow out of them. After that he had to do the same thing with his padded coat, his trousers, and his jacket; snow had even gotten into his shirt. At this point a guard came over. It was his job to make certain the prisoners didn't waste time or didn't attempt lo organize visits to their relatives through one of the escorting soldiers. Occasionally a soldier did not enjoy his army duty and might allow a prisoner's relative, who had traveled to the camp, to send parcels through him. For this the soldier would be recompensed with a bottle of wine or even vodka. Then the guard would tipple and the prisoner would revel in luxury. If the administration got wind of this, the army escort would not remain without strict supervision for long. And woe to the soldier who was caught! He could look forward to two or three years in jail or even worse. At this point the guard who was watching the counting of the prisoners asked Stolyarov, "Well, are you going to work today?" "Citizen natchalnik, there would be no sense in my working today. That would be as if I had not made a solemn vow to God that I would do nothing on Saturday except to evangelize others." "I see, you stubborn animal! I'll teach you something!" With that threat the guard vanished in the direction of the toolshed. The

prisoners on their way to work smiled encouragingly at Stolyarov. The guard was soon back carrying a shovel. "Squat in the snow, you bum!" he ordered. And when the prisoner had sat down the guard tied the shovel to his hands. "You will get up only when you have decided to go to work. If you get up for any other reason the guard will send a bullet through your head." "Thank you, citizen natchalnik." The guard left. Stolyarov shifted his position in the snow. He knelt down and began to pray, his hands tied to the handle of the shovel. He felt so good when he communicated with God through prayer! The commander of the guard saw this from the supervisor's hut and shook his head in amazement. "I don't understand. Someone else in that man's place would curse his own mother. But although he has been mistreated in this way he takes everything without complaining!" "Yes, there are people with such convictions," the duty officer sighed. From time to time other prisoners came to Stolyarov, sat down with him, and chatted until a guard chased them away. One year later Stolyarov would describe it this way: "I was amazed myself when I didn't freeze to death. I had already prepared myself for it. But I tell you—the prayers of someone, somewhere, warmed me. My encounter with Christ while I was being dragged to the work area somehow strengthened me in the conviction that I would go on to eternity but that my hour had not yet arrived." A twice-convicted thief walked over to Stolyarov in the snow and said, "Are you cold, father? Oh, these cursed sadists!" "Don't talk like that, young man. These are unhappy people. All of us have sinned, of course, and are not worthy of praise from God. And all of us need to repent so that Christ may reign as King on earth. I believe that you will still experience it, the thousand-year kingdom of Christ! I hope that you are shown to be

worthy of it! I constantly ask God to make these miserable, beaten prisoners turn to Him so that they may know the power of Christ's love! I would welcome having my own name struck from the book of life if all of you were to be with Christ Jesus!" The prisoner rose with tears in his eyes and vanished in the direction of the work gang. At the same moment the guard appeared from somewhere, saying, "Well, old man, how goes it?" "Together with God I am doing fine. And I beg Him that he should make three of us: you and me with the Savior." "Phooey—go to,..." the guard spat out and stalked away. In the late afternoon the sergeant of the guard came by, saying, "Father, get up and go to the bathroom." "The guard natchalnik prohibited me from doing that." Without a word the sergeant untied the knots with which the shovel was tied to Stolyarov's hands and ordered him to get up. Stolyarov obeyed. The sergeant ordered him to follow him. "Where are you two going? I'm going to complain to the commander of your division!" the guard yelled. The sergeant dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand and conducted Stolyarov to the guards' toilet outside the work area. Then they walked to the guardhouse where the sergeant let Stolyarov sit next to the electric heater until he signaled that it was time to assemble the prisoners by beating on a piece of rail with a hammer. Stolyarov had spent nearly an entire work day—about nine hours—in the snow, his hands tied to the shovel, after being dragged about ten kilometers to the work area. The temperature was twenty-seven degrees below zero.

21. EXONERATION Traube lay dying, discarded by humanity, apparently forgotten by God. He showed hardly a sign of life. From time to time the orderly stuck his head into the sick man's room and called to him, "Haven't you given up the ghost yet?" Each time, Traube opened one eye with great effort, then let it fall shut again. And the orderly left, grumbling, "He's tough, that sect worshiper! Like a snake!" Traube had heard this sort of thing all through his three years at hard labor. Twelve more years of this confronted him. Not a soul had a kind word to say to him. And after he died, there would be only curses and contemptuous words: "Oh, that Traube? The one who raped his own daughter? That's typical of those praying people!" Even the believers had turned away from him and said, "A Lutheran pastor—and he did that?" Now, very quietly, Traube's lips formed the prayer, "... And forgive us our trespasses. ..." He could not go on. A few tears rolled down the limp face. For a few moments indescribable pain contorted his features. He was submissive to this slow death but suffered because he sensed that a duty had not yet been fulfilled. When he was still able to stand up and walk he had often knelt down in the barracks and said the "Our Father" aloud. But right after the first few words a boot had usually hit him in the head or a shoe had flown in his direction. Occasionally he had been hit over the head with a chessboard. He had not gotten up but had simply continued his prayer, "And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive. . . ."At this point he had usually begun to sob and had thrown himself on his bunk. There had not even been a mattress on that bunk because, thin as the mattress was, a criminal had torn it off the bed, saying,

"This pious one doesn't need a soft bed! It's enough that he slept with his own daughter!" Traube had not complained or argued. None of the authorities had intervened on behalf of the tormented prisoner. "I will die soon," Traube had announced to his neighbor one day. "But one thing I beg from God: that He would teach me to pray the 'Our Father' to the very end." "The sooner you croak, the better, you shady character!" had been the reply. The hospital orderly walked over to the sick man's cot and held his ear to the lips, which seemed to be whispering. When Traube broke off his prayer again the orderly let go a flood of obscenities. "How much longer are you going to make trouble for me, you disgusting creature? Why don't you die? I'm sick to death of cleaning up after you!" Traube was not able to react to the cursing. He no longer had the strength. There were no more letters from his wife. Either they were intercepted or his relatives has simply disowned him. The doctor visited Traube only once a week to determine how much longer his heart was going to beat and to see if he couldn't help him depart from his temporal state. It would be a release for the doctor, too. Like all the other prison camp doctors he felt no pity for sick criminals. Some of them served as guinea pigs. He had no sense of responsibility toward them. A new shipment of twenty men had come from jail to the prison camp. The orderly and the doctor (a captain) stood by the infirmary door and discussed it. "Did you know, citizen captain, that a former hero of Soviet labor has arrived here? A former president of a kholkhoz." "How long is his sentence?" "Fifteen years for embezzlement of Socialist property and for indecent behavior with minors." "What's his name?" "Ismailov." Pensively the captain shook his head and then said, "Well, at

least he didn't sleep with his own daughter like the pastor." Suddenly they could clearly hear the whispered words: "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven! Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us...." It was Traube praying. Startled, the orderly heard him say very clearly and accurately, ". . .As we forgive those who trespass against us"! At this the prisoner became silent; a peaceful smile spread across his face. He sighed deeply once more—and was dead. The doctor stepped to his cot and checked his pulse. There was none. Traube was promptly buried the next day. His relatives were not notified of his death. He had become so repulsive to the officers that they could not imagine his relatives wanting to be present at the funeral. He no longer existed. But life itself was preparing to clear up the mystery of Traube. *** The youth leader Pankratov arrived at the camp where Traube had died. The authorities had not caught Pankratov during the baptism ceremony several years earlier, but he had later fallen into their trap. Was it because of the sexton's need to take revenge? Pankratov could only guess at that. When his fellow prisoners learned that he, too, was a believer they scoffed at him with statements like, "Hmm, did you jump into bed with your daughter, too?" "Wha-a-a-t?" asked Pankratov, shocked. "What's he asking? We had a Lutheran pastor here who went to jail because he made his daughter pregnant and she later hanged herself." They showed Pankratov an article from a local newspaper which described the tragedy. He had to endure insinuations and

provocations through his whole time in this prison. Two and a half years passed. During that time the laws of chance caused Trofim, too, to arrive in this prison camp. *** What joy to be able to relax all of the muscles for a while after work and enjoy some peace. Trofim stretched out on his bunk, exhausted, and gave free rein to his thoughts. Pankratov mended his threadbare jacket. A group of prisoners had collected around the former kholkhoz president, Ismailov. In half an hour it would be mealtime, and afterwards—what? No one knew for sure just what was ahead. Perhaps one of them might be called down to the operations office or perhaps one of the political officers would belabor the prisoners with quotes from Lenin: "Religion is the opiate of the masses. It is stupid to believe in God. He who denounces God will be released immediately." Or the duty officer in charge of cultural activities might arrive unheralded in the camp, always with the very same suggestions: "Use your head, Pankratov. You'll be released in an instant if you...." This was how life went day after day, month after month, year after year. The prisoners could never be sure what awaited them the next morning or the day after tomorrow—or that night after dinner, or even before. Pankratov's most recent mail from home brought a surprise. The letter from his wife said despairingly, "They've organized a regular hunting expedition against the children; they want to take them away from us! Dearest one, do pray that the Lord will prevent this barbarity! I can barely go on. I know, my dear one, life is difficult for you, too; but the children are at stake...." My children are to be carried off? Pankratov's thoughts were not on his work, but back home with his family. This caused him to prick his finger with the needle, and while he blew air on the

wound he took note of his fellow prisoners. Ismailov bragged about the fact that in his palmy days as president of the kholkhoz, he and the party secretary had spirited money out of the kholkhoz's cash box and organized drinking bouts during which fourteen-year-old girls were violated. He didn't show the slightest trace of remorse. He was merely sorry that the two of them had been caught at it. Each had received a sentence of fifteen years. But they had sent petitions to the party headquarters in Moscow and finally their sentences had been reduced to five years. After all, hadn't Ismailov been elected deputy to the Supreme Soviet for several terms? Shouldn't he have enjoyed his splendid lifestyle during that time? He'd worked off most of his five years by this time and was preparing to resume his life of gluttony in the future. In the camp, too, Ismailov was not required to sully his hands with manual labor. The administration treated him as if he were one of them and gave him the job of "chief slicer of the camp's bread." During his years in prison he had even gotten fatter! He had also started a gentle dalliance with one of the women guards from the neighboring institution. She saw to it that his physical needs were well attended to. Ismailov told stories from his life with zeal: "You know, boys, in my kholkhoz we had Germans— Lutherans—sent to us from the Volga region during the war. Those Germans were crazy about working! They actually were instrumental in getting me the title of hero of Socialist labor. The bad part was that they met for prayer three times a week. But as long as they met in their homes, and as long as the district party committee didn't suspect anything, we didn't touch the group. "The Lutheran parson had seven daughters, each one more beautiful than the one before. The two oldest ones were members of the Komsomol; the other five were Christians. The first one, Frieda, worked in our office as a bookkeeper. A magnificent maiden—pretty enough that you'd want to take a bite out of her! But no matter how much I paid court to her, she wouldn't

cooperate. Of course I was married, as was my secretary. He made efforts to woo Olya, Frieda's sister. They slapped us down more than once for our phony compliments. "One day a call came from the district committee. They had received a report that a Lutheran sect was active within the limits of our kholkhoz. Our orders were to get busy and forbid their meetings! Should they refuse to obey, we were to gather material to allow the state attorney to begin prosecution. "Naturally the orders of a superior officer become law to his subordinate. In the presence of my secretary I had Frieda report to me, and I informed her that her father would wind up in jail if he didn't stop his prayer meetings. She started to cry, feeling sorry for her father. He had caught silicosis from working in the mines. During the war, people with German backgrounds were shipped to Workout to work in the coal mines, and quite a number had died during the mining operations. This pastor had made it home all right, but with damaged health. "As Frieda wept, my secretary came up with a great idea: 'We'll forget the business with your father if you'll sleep with one of us.' You should have seen her—she jumped up, ran over to my secretary, and gave him a whack which almost knocked him off his chair! After that she ran off crying loudly. My secretary flew into a rage. "We agreed that from then on we would make life miserable for those believers. As soon as they settled themselves down for their prayers, we arrived with the police and started dragging the participants out of the house. We dragged them out to the yard as quickly as we could find them. The young women cried and screamed; the old women groaned. But interestingly they were soon back together praying! Nothing could scare them away. So we started handing out fines. That didn't work either. They just paid the fines and met for prayer again. Then we began to collect evidence for a prosecution of Frieda's father. "Only after that prosecution was initiated did someone knock shyly at the party secretary's door. There was Frieda, her

eyes lowered, saying, T am willing to sleep with you. But don't haul daddy into court! Don't give that evidence to the prosecutor's office.' "Well, my secretary licked his lips in anticipation. But he was a decent fellow. He didn't forget me, and he said, 'Very well, we'll put the whole thing on the shelf if Olya goes to bed with the president.' (That is, with me. I was quite satisfied with Olya, too.) Frieda then departed, and a week later we had an intimate party with the pastor's daughters. "After that we left the pastor and his bunch of worshipers alone. That's how it went for seven months. Of course tongues were wagging in the village, but we shut that stuff off just in time. "Unfortunately our happiness was soon spoiled. Frieda informed my secretary that she was pregnant. This man already had three children at home from his marriage. So he advised Frieda to get an abortion. She left his office in a hurry without saying a word. "The next day the secretary of the Komsomol stormed into my office, yelling, 'Frieda's hung herself! Here is the letter she left behind!' "At that point my hands began to shake, and I sat glued to my chair until my party secretary walked in. The first thing he did was to relieve his colleague from the Komsomol of the letter. "The whole village had gathered at the place where Frieda had hung herself. Her father was the one who had cut her down and removed the letter from her purse. Our Komsomol secretary had come on the scene just in time and had taken the letter away from the pastor. The secretary had scanned it briefly and then had run to our office, terrified. You see, Frieda had described in her letter all of the intimate festivities we had held with her and her sister Olya. We had to find a way out in a hurry! "The solution which saved our hides came from the Komsomol secretary. His handwriting was very similar to Frieda's. So immediately the party secretary and I dictated a new version of the girl's parting letter. According to it her own father

had made her pregnant, and it was because she couldn't face this that she had ended her life. Certainly a most believable motivation for suicide. "In one of the neighboring villages the authorities had recently staged a legal case saying the Pentecostals had sacrificed a young maiden to their God by actually crucifying her. This proved to be more than enough to permit the party to throw all the group's leaders into jail. They even made a moving picture about it to show the public how these believers operated. "A similar strategy worked with this Lutheran pastor. We submitted our letter to the prosecuting attorney and burned Frieda's real letter. After her funeral the state prosecutor rigged such a trial for the Lutherans that the news echoed through the whole countryside! It was certainly some little scandal: the pastor had made his own daughter pregnant and caused her to commit suicide! "The pastor got a sentence of fifteen years while we pocketed the party's thanks for exceptionally effective antireligious activities. When I arrived here in camp a couple of years later, after my own trial, old Traube had just died. It's sad; I could have asked for his forgiveness," the ex-president sneered when he ended his story. His fellow prisoners kept right on moving their chessmen. Stories like that certainly couldn't shock them. Only a couple of them sat there immobile, as if some machinery were cranking inside their heads: Traube? Was Ismailov talking about the Traube they had known? "And then?" one of them asked. "Olya left the village in disgrace. She was warned that her final hour would come quickly if she opened her mouth at all. She went to work in the city as a house painter and broke her neck one day when she fell from the scaffolding. As for the believers, they stopped meeting in our area. The pastor's wife quickly turned gray. And people later said she had cut herself off from her husband. It was a great disgrace, after all." Suddenly Pankratov stood in front of the former president of

the kholkhoz, staring directly at him. "What are you gaping at?" asked the ex-president. Pankratov turned away abruptly and walked over to Trofim, saying, "Did you hear about it, too, brother?" He spoke loudly enough so that the entire barracks could hear him. "Come, let us pray for these souls—these murderers—asking God to bring them to repentance. Hearing this story breaks my heart! To think of those Christian families and those workers in God's kingdom and how they are forced to endure so much suffering and abuse!" Trofim said nothing. With tears in his eyes he rose and went to join Pankratov, who was kneeling. Together they prayed aloud. Those prisoners serving longer terms could easily remember Traube, whom they had despised, taunted, and jeered. A good many of them were hit hard by this turn of events. Traube's daily "Our Fathers" and his general behavior had made an impression on many of these criminals, and deep down they now became convinced lie had been convicted even though he was innocent. But why had Traube never told a single person who it was that had falsely accused him and thrown dirt on him without justification? Of course no one would have believed him; common sense would have told him that. This was especially the case because there were actually believers who said, "Traube— he's not one of us. I don't want anything to do with Lutherans." How then could these criminals have been talked out of believing that the pastor had slept with his own daughter? Suddenly three prisoners jumped Ismailov and began to beat him with their fists. He rose, screaming, and ran from the barracks to the guard room. That evening Pankratov was called in to see the prison's chief, the same man who earlier had given him fifteen days in solitary for "kicking up a fuss." He was ordered into solitary for another fifteen days! Trofim remained unmolested because the administration had learned that the deputy chief prosecutor of the republic had contested the verdicts against Trofim and certain other Baptists.

Soon after this incident a major in the KGB had a talk with Trofim, who had been ordered to report from work to the office of the camp chief. A heavyset man with piercing, penetrating gaze, received Trofim there. As was customary, this KGB major began by asking questions about Trofim's family. Then he went on to interrogate him about his health, about Pankratov, and finally about the real point of the interview. "If we let you go, are you going to start up again?" "Start up what?" '"Well, organizing prayer meetings, preaching, and all those things." "Yes, naturally!" "You know, you have seven children to take care of. And if you don't cease your religious activities, you can look forward to jail sentence after jail sentence. We're going to get rid of this religion business, come what may! We'll take whatever measures are required. There will be no more bourgeois bias within communism. You've come to realize by now that any attack against religion is permitted here. The end justifies the means! We have no objection to your functioning as a leader of a congregation when you go free—as long as you work with us! We will leave your congregation alone as long as you agree to furnish us with regular reports...." It was the same old tune. Trofim was tired of hearing it by this time. Eventually he said evasively to the major, who was waiting for his reply, "Listen, major, haven't we got freedom of religion in the USSR?" "Aw come on! Not freedom to practice religion, but only to hold worship services. This means the old folks can keep going to their churches and praying. But not young people—not dependents and children! You unregistered Baptists have started a senseless fight with us about the agreement between the allSoviet council and the government. And you think that you'll get somewhere! Why don't you stop it? We'll make sure you don't achieve a thing! We'll grant the all-Soviet council a kind of freedom of action for a time, but after that our people will step

into the leading positions. Our population will support our battle against these religions. But we are still in need of capable people to help us control these separatist Evangelical Baptist congregations. You, being a former leader of such a congregation, would be qualified to fulfill this task with honors! It's up to you to choose: freedom, a life without worries; or on the other hand constant fear about your future and the future of your children. And there is no doubt that a death such as that of Nikolay Chmara could also be a consequence." Trofim looked at the officer thoughtfully and remained silent. His health had been completely ruined at the camp. Pankratov still remained in solitary. Trofim did not know where his fellow believers were now imprisoned. He had learned, however, that Pyotr's eyes were badly damaged, while Kostya had become infected with an active case of tuberculosis and coughed all the time. With all that he continued to suffer from radiculitis. Trofim felt that he was personally responsible for every one of his brethren, whether they were free or in prison. If he were to agree to this act of treachery he would expose them all to danger. Was he to assist the atheists by destroying his friends morally and physically just to make things easier for himself? Should he secure his own health and happiness with the blood of his own brethren? No, this I cannot do! he said to himself. Trofim was composed as he raised his head. He gazed directly at the major, who sat there patiently. These men knew how to wait—be it a day, a month, even a year or ten years—until one Christian under pressure of temptation or attack saw no way out of the terrible squeeze, and then.... Then the KGB could perform its part of the agreement and extend its helping hand. After hearing the story of the former president of that kholkhoz, Trofim was again reminded how easy it was to maneuver a human being into such a helpless position. "No, major, I won't take part in that. I want to die like Chmara. The earlier, the better. After all I've heard and seen I would rather be with God as soon as possible. I might hope that

my children will not meet with the same fate as the children of that Lutheran pastor. No, major. NO!"

22. A FAITHFUL SOVEREIGN Stolyarov did not stay long in his second prison camp. He was soon sent to the same camp where Kostya and Pyotr had already been for some time. In the office of the administrator there were sighs as officials once again discovered the large number of violations of prison codes in the man's personal records. The political officer decreed that Solyarov was to be left alone until his release. He recognized that it would be useless to torture this man more than he had already been tortured. In addition to this it was necessary to let scars form over all his wounds. Otherwise, once freed, he would be able to point to the "lessons" which his "educators" in the Soviet prison camps had beaten into him. The camp authorities would have to let this believing prisoner have his way—this much was clear—or else they would have to stage some sort of accident. The first option was the one they selected. It became apparent later that this decision was made because of Chmara's death and its consequences. The three brethren had read together the letter from Kostya's wife in which she described in detail the circumstances of the case of Nikolay Chmara. They thanked God for giving Nikolay the power to remain true unto death. They asked, moreover, that God would lead the murderers to repentance and that He would bring comfort to Chmara's family and provide for his wife and children. Then they passed the letter around among all the prisoners. One of them was so moved by this letter that one night after supper he addressed Stolyarov and Pyotr as follows: "My apologies, but I don't sympathize with believers. I am a Marxist. In the past I worked as the instructor at a Communist party district headquarters. I've read the letter about Chmara. Well, I can assure you that the bosses of his prison camp weren't

punished because of his murder, but they weren't smart enough either to get someone who was uninvolved to kill the believer. The regime in power always has criminals at its service who, for appropriate remuneration, will handle such a ticklish affair without getting the government involved. I can assure you of that, because we had recourse to this ourselves in Lithuania whenever the need arose. "In one instance, I was the one put on such a case. The central committee of the Lithuanian Communist party sent for me to help in the opening up of new territory. What actually occurred was one long nightmare. The technical equipment wouldn't operate for an entire year. The young men in the territory went absolutely wild. They stole, robbed people, and slept with girls who were either willing or half willing. All this time the government trumpeted that the new territory had been conquered. The fact was that the vermin were the only ones who had done any conquering. The economy was certainly not ready for expansion. Conditions were horrifying. Many of us wound up in jail, of course; I'm actually in jail now for the second time. But right now I want to talk about something else. "First of all, I can't show you any sympathy. I don't find your idealistic philosophy satisfying. When I look at you believers I honestly feel sorry for you. Give up this belief of yours since it has no real basis! With the steady progress in the development of communism, things are going to turn out badly for you. It will be done by either ideological or physical means. They're going to clean house! What does it mean to the state to shoot down two or three million people? Absolutely nothing! The state has already liquidated a considerably larger number than that. Those who become indignant about that have their mouths stopped quickly enough! Did you read Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich? Pyotr nodded. "That one's on the list to be shot," the man continued. "You can believe me. The state has handled many other things. And our leaders couldn't care less about international public opinion. The

only thing they don't like is when their shady operations are exposed to public view. Whoever does that is accused as a slanderer in front of the whole world. The propaganda machinery doesn't sleep. "I had something to do with the believers when I worked for the district committee. A few Catholic priests and Protestant leaders did as we told them. They weren't all as stupid as you have been—going to jail because of that God of yours. But in our district there was one evangelical congregation—Methodist or Baptist— whose pastor we could not persuade to obey the party's regulations. He said they were contrary to the rules of godly behavior. And so? We simply gave the interior ministry in Vilna instructions to start a penal action against all members of the congregation. Something about anti-Soviet behavior or the like. "After a time a colonel from the ministry explained to us that it was simply impossible to infiltrate this congregation and place an agent in it. The ministry had spent two years in this unsuccessful effort. "Finally one of us moved into the district, posing as a 'believer.' He spread a rumor that the members were collaborating with the KGB. He did it masterfully in one fell swoop! Faster than you can blink an eye the congregation became divided. Our agent kept pouring more oil on the flames; got the mania about spies roaring. Because he was such a sincere Christian—one who would suffer for the purity of the church—the pastor never realized he was a spy. Eventually all the active members who hadn't moved away found themselves in jail along with their pastor. "So put your religion on the shelf! You could be living in freedom! Instead you are throwing away your youth, your best years! You live only once. So you have to get what you can out of it! Those who have religious prejudices against the party's policies and who propagate them will be liquidated soon. Chmara's case was only a trial balloon. There will be more like him!"

Actually this ex-functionary of the party meant well. But why did he throw his own best years away? Eventually he went off to play a round of dominoes with some of the others while Stolyarov told his young brother Pyotr about Lena Sil and her husband. That which he had just heard about the evangelical congregation in Lithuania reminded him very much of home! *** In the vicinity of this prison camp lived a woman called "Aunt Katya" by young and old. She had learned that there were believers among the prisoners who worked in the uranium mines. Upon hearing this she applied for and obtained a job as night watchman at the mine. She quickly made the acquaintance of Stolyarov, Kostya, and Pyotr. After that she regularly left food for them when she went home from work—such things as sugar, butter, and bread. These aid packages were of decisive significance for these prisoners, especially for Stolyarov. For religious reasons he, like Lapin, did not eat everything he was given to eat at camp. The three Christians never bothered to ask Katya for her denomination, nor did she seem to show any interest whatever in such questions about them. They did not become aware that she died shortly after the three left the camp until they later tried to give her the thanks she so richly deserved. * ** *** Once again a number of prisoners were transferred to another camp. This time Pyotr was the only believer among them. But his separation from Kostya was not to be long. By then rumors were circulating that a petition from the chief prosecutor of the Soviet Union was going to bring about the release of the Christians from the camps. The death of Nikolay Chmara had

started the ball rolling. The authorities had allowed themselves to be caught up in a scandal and were now making an effort to smooth the troubled waters by eliminating a number of penal cases. (Unfortunately, there were to be even more numerous imprisonments of unregistered evangelical Christians just a year after these prisoners were finally released.) The new locale turned out to be an ancient camp. The barracks, which had been put up many years before, were dirty and wet. Mattresses and pillows were stuffed with straw and infested with lice. At times the prisoners could take baths only once every eight weeks. Pyotr attempted to improve the situation by obtaining a package of insecticide at the infirmary and putting large amounts of the powder under his bedsheet and inside his pillowcase. Here, too, the prisoners were not allowed to sit idle, even though they were not required to perform productive work. Along with five criminals Pyotr was ordered to dig a hole eighteen feet wide and eighteen feet deep. When they had finished this mighty labor, along came a bulldozer and pushed the dirt right back into the hole. What yelling and swearing this brought from the prisoners! Armed with a crowbar they chased the foreman, but he was able to escape his punishment. Unfortunately for the "construction workers" who had been fooled in his way (Pyotr included), this rebellion brought only lit teen days in solitary. Pyotr did not say a word, but it certainly bothered him. They had been promised extra rations for digging that hole, and now they received this "dessert" instead, even though he had not participated in the attack. Yet this young Christian received some reward for all his trouble. Several of the older men in the camp were friendly and open toward him since Stolyarov had started the ball rolling earlier during his stay at this camp. Stolyarov's witness, his love, his unbending strength from those things which he recognized as God's will for him had left a profound impression on many of his fellow prisoners.

Pyotr's section leader, an Armenian with a thorough mastery of Russian swear words, remained totally untouched by any of this. This Armenian was not consciously malicious, but also not very sympathetic. He had been on duty in the camp one New Year's when one of the prisoners was showing signs of acute appendicitis. His comrades had insisted that the leader call either the first aid squad or a doctor. "Aw, he can wait until January 2 to do his dying!" But the appendix had burst and the prisoner had died—with only a few weeks left until his prison term would have ended. (He had received a six-year term in connection with a traffic accident.) The resentful prisoners had refused to give up the corpse until an investigation was initiated and the Armenian punished for his inhumanity. A commission from the interior ministry had arrived on the scene, promising justice. Then the prisoners had given up the dead body. The man had been buried immediately and his relatives told that he had died of pneumonia. *** During the early part of June the chief of operations asked to see the camp's doctors. "Sinaida Semyonovna, take Pyotr to a public clinic and have an experienced eye doctor look at him. We have been informed that the Baptists' cases are going to be re-examined. A higher court may order his release at any time. And then the young man will raise a fuss about having been blinded because of our neglect. This could start a scandal like that Chmara murder in Kulunda." "I have wanted to do that for a long time, captain," the doctor answered, "but each time you stopped me. Now it maybe too late." "All right, my dear; let's not have any lengthy discussion about who wanted to do what. Let us act instead. Whatever can still be done must be done. We've got to stop the prisoners'

chattering that we're trying to ruin Pyotr on purpose." That night the camp's chief physician ordered Pyotr to come to see her. She told him he would not have to go to work the following day, but that instead she would take him to a specialist in a public clinic. The next day they sat in the waiting room at the clinic. Dozens of curious eyes examined Pyotr, who was guarded by two armed soldiers. The eye doctor examined Pyotr thoroughly. "Too late!" was the verdict. "Too late! Why didn't you bring him here sooner? I can give him a prescription but I doubt that this twenty-two-year-old boy will ever have his vision restored. Why didn't you bring him here sooner?" "There were no guards available to escort him here." "Well, you could have asked me to come to the camp! What kind of mess is this?" scolded the doctor. Pyotr was taken back to the camp. That same evening lie was freed from all work until he was healthy again. One day at the end of June the production chief confided to Pyotr that he had seen a notice that Pyotr and Kostya were to be pardoned. And indeed, the following day both of them were released! Kostya beamed with joy; Pyotr looked troubled. "Aren't you happy that we're free?" Kostya couldn't believe his eyes. "Sure. But I'm thinking that one way or another we will be back here anyway, and that we may even die in one of these camps. This freedom is not to be relied on; nothing the atheists do is reliable. The system has chosen us all to be its victims. So you'd better not prepare yourself for a free and easy life, but only for a continuation of the struggle." "Yes, it's true," concurred Kostya. "Now, as before, it's a question of life and death." ***

Nikanor and Semyon had become especially close after Lapin's death. What could bind an Orthodox Christian and a Pentecostal—members of two such widely differing denominations—so closely? One of their fellow prisoners, a former lecturer in Marxism-Leninism, attempted to clarify this question in scientific terms. This sixty-year-old man named Knyasev had been put behind bars through the connivance of his wife, who was just half his age and therefore eager to rid herself of him. The camp administration invited him to give a talk on anti-religious themes once a month. This is why this former university lecturer observed Nikanor and Semyon with such intense interest. Yet Knyasev was not a member of the operations officer's pack of informers. As he confided in private conversations, he did not believe unqualifiedly in Marxism. His father, an Orthodox priest, had died in prison and Knyasev greatly honored his memory. Around his neck he had a small medallion with a picture of his father. He had obtained special permission to wear it in prison camp. The guards had confiscated his medallion many times during the general searching of prisoners. But each time the Marxist-Leninist had gone into action and by writing to the state prosecutor had succeeded in getting the medallion back. He proudly told the believers that his father had had powers unknown to science and had healed sick people in the name of God. As an atheist he, of course, did not believe in a supernatural power. But he believed nature had given every man enormous, secret sources of power with which he could work wonders. The camp's newly arrived political officer, limited in his knowledge much like his predecessor and his other colleagues, talked with Knyasev for hours at a time in order to broaden his narrow store of knowledge. One time the political officer invited Semyon and Nikanor to come to the camp's broadcasting studio. There he sat down by a short-wave receiver. Suddenly the voice of a preacher could be heard. The political officer looked up and invited the two

prisoners to sit down. It was a prayer broadcast. Nikanor whispered into Semyon's ear, "That's Poysti. He is said to be one of ours, a Pentecostalist." "Maybe, though, he is also one of us—namely, a Christian," Semyon whispered back, laughing. "He who is not against us is with us. We will all sit together about Christ's feet. If only we can be found worthy of that honor!" The political officer grinned when he heard the radio preacher's call for man to turn toward the Lord. Semyon looked in front of him pensively, while Nikanor glowed. But how quickly the precious minutes vanished— minutes spent with this far-off bearer of the Good News! Already the radio was turned off and there they sat, literally dazed by this encouragement, this pep talk, this call for decision. "All right, gentlemen," the political officer interrupted (heir thoughts. "So this preacher has given you a talk on I he subject of prayer. But for you this isn't really relevant. Whether you pray to your God or not He cannot-make you free. If you pray to us—or let me say, to me—then J can certainly contribute to your being freed. I can guarantee it!" Semyon frowned. A pained expression came over his lace and he said, "You know, citizen natchalnik, I feel sorry for you. God will not spare you unless you ask for His forgiveness. He will not let you mock Him." "I don't give a rap for your beliefs! I don't believe in your God!" "God compels no one to believe in Him," Nikanor interjected, "but Semyon is indeed right when he says our God will not allow himself to be mocked." "Stop preaching morality to me! March back to your barracks! And remember that ultimately you'll get more out of praying to the party than to one who does not exist!" Wordlessly Nikanor and Semyon returned to their barracks. They forgot all about the political officer while they thanked God for the words He had allowed them to hear over the radio. All the

while, Knyasev looked furtively at them. The two believers talked the whole night through about what they had heard. The next day at lunch Knyasev stepped toward Semyon and asked him in a whisper, "Did you hear that our political officer is dead?" Semyon was startled. "Yes, something strange happened to him," Knyasev continued. "Yesterday after his talk with the two of you he left the prison area and went to the railroad station. The suburban train was just pulling out of the station. He barely had time to jump aboard a little footrest outside the passenger compartment. Apparently he thought someone would see him and open the door. But no one on the train noticed him. He couldn't hold on very long, and he fell under the wheels." Greatly shaken, Semyon told the lecturer of the talk they had had with the political officer the previous day. Knyasev listened to him, disguising his own fears, and confessed, "It was I who gave him the idea of letting you listen to one of the Poysti broadcasts. I wanted to make you homesick for freedom, for your loved ones. It was a psychological trick of mine! So this is what can come of that. It's a two-edged sword; I certainly miscalculated there." The elderly Knyasev became more and more pensive from that time on. One evening he grabbed Nikanor by the sleeve and stated, "I've become a total shipwreck. My philosophy is kaputt! There is indeed a God! You can count yourself among the fortunate who can worship Him!" With that he turned abruptly and walked toward the reading room. The following evening the Christians discovered that the lecturer in Marxism-Leninism had completed his two-year term and had been released that morning, along with his freshly sprouting belief in the Lord. ***

Like the three Baptists, Nikanor did not have to serve out his entire five-year sentence. In response to the camp commander's application he was freed after serving two years and eight months. No one knew how many years God would let Nikanor serve inside jails and prison camps in the future. On the New Year's Eve before Nikanor's release, his children were allowed to stay up until midnight. Their mother prayed with them as the year ended, explaining to the children that they could put all of their wishes for the new year before the Father in heaven. Little Lyuba prayed that her father would be sent home. On New Year's Day Lyuba woke up before the older children did. She ran to the kitchen where her mother was preparing breakfast. "Mama, mama, the dear Lord has told me that daddy will surely come home this year!" Her mother shrugged her shoulders and smiled sadly. The other children had been awakened by Lyuba's cries. Lyuba slid back into bed and told them of her dream. Spring came. Then summer. One of her brothers poked fun at the little girl. "Six months have passed and daddy still is not here!" "If the dear Lord said that daddy is coming home this year, then he will come! So there!" Lyuba answered. August. A clear day. The children were playing in the yard. Lyuba busied herself in the sandbox. Suddenly they saw a man walking toward their little house. Lyuba's small heart began to beat wildly. "Daddy! Daddy has come!" The children raced each other to reach their father first. Halfway there Lyuba stumbled and fell to her knees. Then she remembered that first of all she should thank God for her daddy. And, unconcerned about the neighbors, she did just that—right in the middle of the street. Nikanor lifted the small one up and covered her with his kisses. The children surrounded him and became all tangled

together in their happiness. At first Nikanor's wife could not manage to get out one word. The family could not look at their "returning hero" often enough. Fervently they thanked God together. "Papasha," lisped the little Lyuba, who had established a permanent place for herself on Nikanor's knees, "our dear Lord told me you would be coming back this year. The others didn't believe it. But I firmly put my hope on it and now He has brought you home." "We have so little faith," the mother sighed. "But the child believed! And God did not disappoint Lyuba. To Him be thanks!" Nikanor resumed his duties as leader of his congregation immediately. *** Unfortunately Semyon was not discharged from prison earlier than his sentence stated. He had to spend his entire ten years in prison because of his beliefs. After that, however, he was freed—but only temporarily. Pyotr made it his business to care for Semyon, the brother who had helped him so energetically in prison. Yet many of Pyotr's fellow Christians attempted to stop him. They felt Pyotr should not concern himself about a believer who belonged to a different denomination! Not only that, but Semyon was an icon worshiper! But had God not granted Semyon's prayers? And Semyon never disputed the fact that most Orthodox people—just like most Protestants—were not born-again Christians. He was always amazed when God answered his prayer, since he felt himself unworthy and more of a sinner than all the rest. What, however, did God have to say about this? "Up high and in holiness I reside among those of broken and crushed spirits, in order to bring new life to the spirits of those who are bent down, and to quicken the hearts of those who are beaten." God is with those who are humble and who do not delude

themselves about their own lives or those of their believing brethren, but who give all the glory to God alone. Nevertheless, because Semyon was concerned only about following Christ and not about the barriers between the different denominations, he had to expect the authorities to keep their eyes on him and on the members of his congregation.

23. DIVERGING PATHS What became of the forester at whose birthday celebration Proshin ordained two priests, and who later vanished? He spent five years in various prison camps. After that he was able to locate his family but did not live much longer. He lies buried somewhere in the district of Tomsk. Did Proshin turn up again? Pyotr had an indirect encounter with him through an Orthodox priest who had been transported to his camp by mistake. After quickly ascertaining that both were Christians, Pyotr and the priest began a conversation which lasted several hours. Something of Proshin's teaching was apparent in the way the priest spoke. The priest told how the authorities dealt with a patriarch named Tichon, and with others. "Tichon was brought to testify in the legal action against a priest named Saosyorsky, who had branded the confiscation of church treasures by the Soviet powers as a blasphemy against God. This priest was eventually shot. Patriarch Tichon was asked by one of the judges whether he considered himself bound by the laws of the state. Do you know what his answer was? 'Yes, I recognize them insofar as they don't contradict the rules of godliness.' That was what caused his downfall. Metropolitan Venyamin, too, stood up for the church's separation from politics. He was shot. Odinzov, then the leader of the Association of Baptists of the USSR, who insisted on uncompromised service to the kingdom of God, was also arrested by the authorities. Dogs were set upon this man and they tore him to ribbons. My father knew him well. They had been prisoners in the same cell and had talked together for many hours. Odinzov was a wonderful Christian. When my father learned of his death, he would not touch food for ten days as a sign of mourning. He kept saying, 'If all Baptists were like Odinzov I would gladly give up the Orthodoxy and

become a Baptist.' My father, too, was tortured to death by the authorities. "I was a student in the seminary. But when I recognized that the church was not free from politics and that among the clergy— Orthodox as well as Baptist—a true spirit of sacrificial service toward God was no longer dominant, I decided that my place was not at the seminary. Instead I requested assignment to a congregation. I saw that what would save Christendom was evangelization. This is what I learned from my father and what he, in turn, had learned from Odinzov: in our system only a bornagain Christian can remain faithful. Thus I resolved to put the preaching of the gospel before everything else, but without moving away from the dogmas and rites of the Orthodox church. I determined to very cautiously inform the members of my congregation that they absolutely must experience this inner conversion. I soon discovered that I had not yet had such a conversion myself. I learned this while I was celebrating a worship service. At that moment I had a vision. I saw my Redeemer before me, and I knew as of that instant that I was so unworthy and empty I could only repeat the words 'Have mercy on me, an unworthy sinner!' over and over. This marked the beginning of a new life for me. The flow of worshipers to my church increased rapidly. I began to work energetically with the believers. I led every person in the confessional to the conclusion that only an absolute surrender to Christ, done in full repentance, could save him or her. "One day while I was working in my garden I saw a youngster climb over the fence. He began to steal some apples. He was not careful, however, and broke several branches of my tree. I sneaked up on him from the rear and grabbed his arm. He whirled around, tried to tear himself loose from me, and started to yell. But I had him firmly in my grasp and dragged him to a covered spot by the side of my house. I had put a heap of beautiful apples there. I said that he could take as many of these as he wanted. He looked at me suspiciously, for he was on the

brink of tears. So I myself stuffed his pockets and his shirt with apples. Then I told him that he could come back and even bring along his friends. He came back with four of his friends. I gave them all apples to eat and allowed them to carry home as many as they wanted. This is how I wound up having children visit me all the time. Occasionally I served them tea and honey. "Not only did the children enjoy my garden, but they came to church, too. After a while I began to introduce the children to music. I am a great lover of music. Within six months as many as thirty children had become my steady visitors. I taught them hymns. Some of the more talented ones began to learn to play musical instruments. The children loved me so much that they kept quiet and told no one about their relationship with a priest. One day some of the parents did learn about this group, and a few of them showed up at one of our meetings. They enjoyed themselves very much there. "About that time, however, a woman teacher began to shadow the children. One day she came into my house just as we were starting to discuss the third chapter of the Gospel of John. At the conclusion a small musical group played a psalm set to music. Then all sang together. The teacher became a convert shortly after this. This was a great joy to all of us. But for me the story ended with a trip to prison. "Yes, my dear one, 'Wisdom puffs one up,' and God is honored through those souls who are born again into Christ, whether they be Baptists or Orthodox or whatever else. If only the main concern of all pastors in every church and denomination could be to lead their members to the living Christ, then atheism inside Soviet Russia would collapse like a house of cards. What a pity that the leadership of the Orthodox church and of the Baptists has become dependent on the politics of atheism! If they would only concentrate on one thing—to evangelize and to lead their people to the living God—then Russia would be renewed in an instant." Finally Pyotr was able to ask, "Do you know Proshin?"

The priest nodded and gave the young man an eloquent look. But they were not able to discuss matters further because the priest was then picked up to be shipped to another camp. Pyotr lost track of him at that point. After Pyotr's release from prison he inquired everywhere for someone who might have known this fine priest. For a long time he was unsuccessful. Later he happened upon the town which the priest had served. There all the stories he had told during his "guest appearance" in Pyotr's camp were confirmed. The priest had been sentenced to ten years for his "anti-Sovietism." Anyone who concerned himself with evangelism—who served God without making compromises and called on others to do the same—was accused of anticommunism and even of anti-Sovietism. Conversely those who made agreements with atheism were promoted by the government and received all sorts of honors and decorations. *** Little Dasha, Proshin's niece, blossomed into womanhood and in time became the mother of two children. Her husband was the leader of an Evangelical Baptist congregation to which Dasha also belonged. If Proshin had not come along she would probably have been carrying a party membership card in her handbag and might even have been taking part in the persecution of believers. Dasha had never given up on her vanished spiritual father. She became a loving and caring person; her husband was overjoyed with his life's companion. He was sent to jail twice for proclaiming the gospel. *** During the birthday celebration in the forester's house, one of the participants vanished as Proshin and the forester galloped off into the Taiga forest. Without expecting it, Pyotr located another piece in this puzzle. He learned that this "believer" had actually infiltrated into the congregation at the instigation of the

authorities. It was he who had turned the forester in. Five years later the spy became deranged. He constantly repeated the words, "I am a traitor! I am a traitor!" Eventually he drowned and the authorities tried to blame the believers for his death. The newspapers were just waiting for such material. The Soviet press could print lies about the believers without fear of punishment. Corrections of inaccurate stories were never seen. After all, it was the party line to do away with all religion. An employee of the executive committee of a local district stated, "All means are appropriate when it comes to dealing with you believers. And we will employ them all until nothing of your faith and of your God remains." However, the believers knew that all the atheistic comrades would eventually suffer the same fate as the political officer in Semyon and Nikanor's camp. God remains the same—yesterday, today, tomorrow, and in eternity —and He will not allow himself to be mocked. *** As for the path taken by the sexton of the Baptist prayer house, Pyotr learned of that in a letter which he received in the prison camp. When Pankratov emerged from prison (also earlier than scheduled) he was expelled from the registered Evangelical Baptist congregation. The sexton, after his exclusion from this congregation, continued his activities as an informer for a while. This time, however, he worked as a regular and apparently faithful member of an Orthodox church. Eventually his superior in the KGB could find no more use for him. The old man drank heavily to drown his unhappiness about this dismissal. On his unsteady way home one night, walking on slippery ice and snow, he fell down and struck his head on the ground. He died instantly of a brain hemorrhage. Since Pankratov had become the leader of an unregistered

Baptist congregation, he soon found himself under arrest again. He was sentenced to five more years in prison. This time he spent the full term there and after his release served as a faithful worker in God's kingdom, respected and held in high esteem by old and young Christians alike. *** Pyotr lost touch with Stolyarov. But the KGB authorities did not. Stolyarov's dossier continued to fill up, and it was only a matter of time until the authorities would again—if God allowed —strike him another blow. Perhaps this time they might say that Stolyarov was a fanatic who, by proclaiming Christ as Savior, prevented church members from building up the bright future of Soviet Russia. The government was indeed buildings things in Russia. But what they were building were new jails and prison camps. The functionaries counted on the fact that when the threshold of complete transition to communism was reached, all believers who stubbornly adhered to God would have to be put into concentration camps. This was exactly what a well-known political boss had said. (Another political boss had expounded on this theme in a similar fashion. But under the influence of hashish he managed to say a good many other things, too.) But God himself would have something to say about all this. He was biding His time, testing His people in the fiery furnace and noting how the Christians reacted to it. Did they pray? Did they visit their brethren in the prisons? Did they give financial support to the prisoners and their families? Thanks be to God, His people were indeed doing these things in every corner of the world. *** One of the workers in God's kingdom visited some relatives

in another part of the country, later reporting to Pyotr. In western Russia this visitor met a man who had gone underground after being the leader of a registered Baptist congregation. A man about forty years of age had become a convert there. His wife had been a believer before him. The church was overjoyed at this conversion, for they had long prayed for the husband of their sister in Christ. The new convert was quickly baptized and accepted into the congregation. He proved to be a very active member. Two years later the leader of the community chose him to be his helper. Now they were both engaged in the work of God. The congregation's leader was an unassuming, faithful Christian. He simply turned a deaf ear to the regulations which kept coming from the official in charge of the cults and from the All-Union Council of the Evangelical Baptists. Somehow he escaped the controlling influence of the KGB, who felt something just had to be done about it! One night the helper knocked on the congregation leader's door. He had something urgent to discuss. "Do you know, brother," he began, "I work for the KGB. It is my job to render you harmless. But everyone in this church loves you so much that nothing can be done from a moral viewpoint to hurt you. For this reason I was instructed to rig a traffic accident involving you in the next few days. But because you are such a sincere Christian I am sorry for you. You are so straightforward and so friendly to all the people and to me, too, that I simply cannot do this. I beg you to vanish from this town this very night! I am ordered to see that you are liquidated by such-and-such a date. If you leave town my chief can't do anything to you or to me. I'll explain that the shepherd left his flock untended. Somehow everything will work itself out. Get going! Or else you are finished!" That very night the leader of the congregation left town by train. "What was this helper's name?" Pyotr asked his informant.

"This almost reads like a novel!" "I gave my word that I would not tell anyone his last name. His first name is Igor." "Igor! And his wife's name is Lena Sil?" "How did you guess that?" the man asked in amazement. "Do you know what all this means? I wouldn't believe you if the name weren't the one I mentioned. Lena Sil.... We've got to let this thing blow sky-high! Do you understand? We have to go there and bring the whole affair out into the open!" "Not so fast!" The man attempted to calm Pyotr. "What are you trying to achieve with all this? No one will believe you! They will denounce you as a slanderer and defamer. They'll set up an accident for you, and then they'll have their peace and quiet again." Poor Lena! If she had learned what kind of man her husband was, how could she have endured it? This man later moved up to the role of congregational leader. What secret labors he still performed as part of his work, Lena did not know. There were many possibilities outside of the KGB.

24. THE WORD TRIUMPHANT After Pyotr's second arrest he was under KGB detention pending trial for nearly four months. Then he was taken to the city prison and put into one of the many cells in cellblock one. As he entered, heavy, fetid air swept toward him. The cell was small. Instead of its normal complement of six prisoners, fourteen were already in it. The prison overflowed with prisoners; even the other types of jails were hopelessly overcrowded. The human mass which moved through the jails simply could not be processed quickly enough to alleviate the congestion. In the camps three-story bunks were being erected to handle the enormous glut of prisoners. The reason for all this was that a campaign was being conducted against rowdyism. In order to relieve the overload inside the prisons and prison camps, those prisoners without previous convictions who were to serve sentences of two or three years were finally ordered to serve their sentences as construction laborers in the chemical industry. As Pyotr entered the cell he greeted everyone and introduced himself as a Christian whose criminal offense had been that he had acted as leader of Christian youth groups. It soon developed that apart from one hard-boiled scoundrel, everyone else was a newcomer who had gotten into jail by sheer accident. Pyotr could only shake his head in amazement. While serving his first term he had become acquainted with quite a number of professional criminals. These prisoners were merely rowdies. For example, one night a young man had staggered out of his apartment half asleep and had urinated on the staircase. Three years at hard labor! He wept about being the butt of many jokes in the cell. Life suddenly became difficult, too, for the tenth grader who had thrown stones at sparrows. One rock had strayed through the window of a neighbor. Three years' regular

punishment. Other prisoners found themselves in jail for equally laughable offenses. In jail they were not only made fun of but were also instructed in how to smoke hashish, how to brew tshifir, and how to play cards. They would be released as fully trained and qualified criminals. Pyotr told his cellmates how other rowdies had broken the windows of believers. But no one had ever heard of anyone being punished for that. "Well, that's a different matter," the student who had thrown stones at the sparrows agreed. "Even at school we were encouraged to show those believers a thing or two—to break their windows or to beat up young people who wanted to frequent the 'assemblies' of the Baptists. However, in my own case my neighbor jumped all over me and had me dragged to jail because I hit her window instead of my sparrow. My neighbor happens to have a job as a notary public." All these things went around and around inside Pyotr's head for many nights. He was also preoccupied with the progress of the investigation of his own case. In the statement of charges against Pyotr, the state's attorney accused him and his friends of meeting with young Christians outside the city limits for the purpose of singing, prayer, and Bible study. This was considered "antisocial behavior" by the KGB. "Why are you hanging your head anyway, buddy?" a thoroughly hardened criminal, showing his concern, soon asked Pyotr. Pyotr came up with an answer for him. "You know, I've got to watch as you devour book after book while I've got to do without my Bible. If only I had one!" "A Bible? Aha, I know. My grandmother read to me from one—who knows how many years ago. Tomorrow my trial begins. It'll probably last ten days. We'll be able to obtain a Bible for you within that time. Give me your home address. My sister can stop by there sometime and bring you a Bible during the second day of my trial."

"But how is she going to do that? She'll be searched!" "Don't you concern yourself about that! I've committed 150 thefts and have never been caught in a single one of them. I actually turned myself in! With all that behind me I can certainly get a little Bible through for you!" Pyotr hesitated, but eventually gave him the address of a friend. The next evening Pyotr received his first progress report. At first the guard had not wanted to allow the thief to see his sister. She had to stuff a half-hundred note into his pocket. After that he had been able to transmit the address and the request to her. "Tomorrow evening you'll have your little Bible." The next evening, as the guard locked the door behind him, the thief announced triumphantly, "Hooray! Here's your Bible!" Pyotr embraced the thief and let him tell his story. "My little sister was forced to give the guard money one more time. Then he allowed her to give me this thing. But as I entered the jail building again the chief passed by me and ordered the guard to search me all the way to my skin! He had gotten wind of something! Well, I went into the searching chamber with him and started to take off my clothes. All the while I was speculating about what I could do with the little Bible. So when the guard turned around for a second, I stuffed the Bible into his coat pocket! He went through all my stuff, looked into my mouth and my ears, then ordered me to get dressed again. They were evidently out to find hashish on me. Then the guard headed for the door. I nearly screamed, 'Stop! My Bible!' But I contained myself and with two fingers snatched that thing out of his pocket and stuffed it into my own. Then he turned around, and off he went. And now you've got your Bible! Take good care of it. After all, it cost my sister one hundred rubles!" The Bible which had been smuggled in was the Gospel of John with a study plan. Afterwards Pyotr left the biblical part in the camp with a few Pentecostals still left there. They were to pass it on to other believers. But the temptation was too great.

They smuggled the Gospel out with them when they left prison and donated it to a group of young Christians who had no Bible at all. Pyotr's small book was hidden away in many, many places! In kapok pillows, in mattresses, in an invalid's stick, in the desk of the chief of Pyotr's section, in the cold ashes near the furnace. And once even in the pocket of a drunken section chief! This occurred during a general shakedown. Pyotr's fellow prisoners rescued his little treasure while the major was yelling obscenities. The major probably would not remember that incident any more than he would remember the fact that the prisoners stuck hashish in his pocket one day when he unexpectedly showed up at the work station. His purpose was to vent his anger about his wife again withholding his weekly allowance for the purchase of vodka. In that instance the prisoners let a three-ruble note glide into the major's right-hand pocket because none of them wanted to get on the wrong side of him and be condemned to solitary. Into his left-hand pocket, which he never used for anything, they regularly put such things as hashish, playing cards, even morphine on one occasion. The major carried these treasures out of the work area into the barracks zone, where a "reception committee" met him. Two or three prisoners engaged him in discussion while another masterfully extricated every single item which had been placed in his left-hand pocket. The major knew well enough that the possession of hard cash was a punishable offense for any prisoner. He also knew that the prisoners needed cash in order to buy some sugar, which sold for three times the normal price. That way the prisoners could occasionally sweeten their tea for a change. And the major profited considerably by ignoring the prisoners' possession of cash. *** Later Pyotr asked the former thief—who by the way had

become a believer while in the prison camp— whether he had a guilty conscience because he had smuggled the Bible into the prison. "What are you talking about, brother? That was probably the only good deed I've ever done! It caused me to think about God, and after that didn't I gain the insight I needed, and didn't I make my conversion?" Praise God for that!

THE AUTHOR'S EPILOGUE There's a story behind this book, too. It had to be newly written three times. As of 1960 I collected material about the lives of Christians in the USSR. This was quite a large-scale enterprise. But during my first period of punishment my relatives had to burn all of the material for safety's sake. After my release from detention I immediately began to assemble the material for the second time. My encounters with the forester, with Dasha Lukins, and with many other believers made this possible. But in May, 1966, a search of my home brought on my second arrest and jail sentence. This meant that for the second time all the notes I had recorded were lost, partially through confiscation and partially through precautionary destruction by my relatives. My camp diaries from 1962 to 1965 all vanished. It took me a long time after my imprisonment—until 1970—to get over this blow. Right after this release I began for the third time to record the recollections of dozens of Christians. But in January, 1971,1 suffered yet another blow to this valuable collection. Nearly all of it was stolen from my home. What little was left—and what I was able to retain in my mind—could be compiled again only after my departure from my beloved Russian homeland. Only in this way could I save this material and pass it on to Christians in the West. But why is the fate of those who confess Christ in Russia so close to my heart? From my own bitter experience, and from closely observing everything that has gone on around me since my childhood, I have become convinced that in order for a Soviet youth to seek the truth and find salvation in the message of Jesus Christ he must first undergo a series of shattering emotional experiences. Such experiences occur during those periods when God's great

antagonist attempts to prevent or to destroy the country's spiritual life. It became my burning desire, therefore, to investigate the weapons and the goals of the great antagonist. I have occupied myself with this for several years. And when the picture began to assume sharp outlines, the urgent question arose: How is our Christian population as a whole withstanding this sinister onslaught? I was quickly disappointed by what had happened inside the great churches. They had become willing puppets ready to dance for the antagonist. Or else they had made conspicuous promises to him. I searched for other Christians—those to whom dying on behalf of Jesus Christ would appear as gain. They came into my view gradually. When the actions of congregations unwilling to compromise with the enemy started to scare off believers in several denominations, and when it became clear where cooperation with the enemy would lead, then the secret encounters began between groups of Baptists, Reformed Adventists, moderate Pentecostals, members of the True Orthodox Church, Mennonites, and others. The antagonist quickly got the point of what was going on. No wonder my written evidence of KGB infiltration into congregations and of attempts to confuse the faithful children of God drove the enemy nearly mad with fury! So he struck whomever and wherever he could. He preferred to annihilate his opponent by moral means. So rumors and slanders began to circulate about me. But the results were probably unsatisfactory. Therefore in 1966 the antagonist changed his tactics and threatened to liquidate me. This is what had been done before with Chmara and later with Vanya Moisseyev, the Christian soldier martyred for his faith. In 1971 the enemy succeeded in delivering another blow against my existence. He confiscated nearly all the material which I had accumulated about the recollections of dozens of Christians in Russia. Threats, provocations, and denunciations followed. The

shadow of the enemy hung over me until the day of my departure to the West. He has never rejected any means of eliminating individuals who are wholly determined to serve God. Even today he works with satanic might and threatens to devour all mankind, to reign over all the peoples of the world. It is terrible—even tragic—to be forced to function as the tool of this enemy. Was the enemy alone responsible for Traube's death? Weren't those who believed the false statements that the pastor had slept with his daughter—their very own pastor, who had endured so much because of his beliefs—also guilty of his suffering, along with many others? And what about those who say, "What business is it of mine when they take away the children of a Pentecostal—or a Lutheran —or an Adventist—or a Baptist?" Aren't they doing the work of the antagonist within the congregation of Jesus? A certain Aunt Katya faced the enemy squarely and head-on. And for whom did this Adventist risk her body and soul? For Baptists? No, for brothers in Christ! Such aid as she gave produces thanksgiving to God. Thanks, too, to all Christians who in the past have sustained the prisoners and their families through their prayers and offerings—those who are mentioned here and many others—plus all those who continue to do so. A few of the records, such as witnessing the martyrdom of two Mennonite preachers who died in a camp in northern Russia toward the close of the 1950s, could no longer be reconstructed from my memory. But the names of all those faithful Christians who were tortured to death have been entered by God in the book of life. The sacrifices caused by Soviet deeds are also recorded in the archives of the KGB. Yes, the insatiable antagonist also keeps his books. Who has been designated as the next victim? I have learned at first hand—in fact from a distant relative who belongs to the Communist party—what was stated in a speech by a member of the central committee: "You Communists have become as passive as the Western Christians. Therefore despite all our persecutions the Christians

have found fertile ground in Russia for their evangelizing. We, in turn, have found the most favorable conditions for our work in the West." The evidence given in these pages attests to the truth of the statement about fertile ground for Christ's work in the Soviet Union. We Christians encountered this both while we were free and while we were in prison. Our Lord needs to send His workers into jails and camps, too. Many Christians have proved themselves ready for this task. They have walked the path all the way and have experienced His love as their reward. We are no super-Christians. We are no heroes. We are merely disciples trying to emulate Christ—held up by His grace, fed by it, warmed by it, and led to our final goal by it.

APPENDIX A: ALPHABETICAL LIST OF PERSONS MENTIONED, WITH CHAPTER OF FIRST MENTION Alexander (6) Aunt Katya (22) Bekov (1) Byrda, Mrs. (13) Catherine II (2) Chmara, Nikolay (19) Dikkij (9) Dyura, Osman (3) Ensign (1) Forester, (6) Frieda (21) Gena (Prologue) Gena (8) Gorky (17) Grisha (7) Igor (1) Ira (Irina) (1) Ismailov (21) Ivan (16) Karev (4) Kasenkov (8) Khrapov (10) Knyasev (22) Kosoresova, Shura (12) Kostya (2) Krylov, Ivan (18) Lapin, Vanya (3) Leonid (5) Lida (6)

Lukach (3) Lukins, Dasha-1 (6) Lukins, Lena (6) Lukins, Mrs. (6) Lvova, Mrs. (12) Lyonya (2) Lyuba (22) Malysh (7) Marina (2) Mayakovsky (2) Moisseyev, Vanya (Epilogue) Natasha (16) Nikanor (7) Nikita (2) Nyura (3) Odinzov (23) Olya (6) Olya (21) Pankratov (5) Peters, Petya (12) Polouyanov (18) Popov, Dasha (6) Popov, Pyotr (6) Poysti (22) Proshin (6) Pyotr (2) Ramin (Prologue) Rempel, Mariya (12) Saosyorsky (23) Sayranov (2) Semyon (9) Semyonovna, Eufrosinia (5) Semyonovna, Sinaida (22) Sienkiewicz (11) Sil, Lena (1)

Solzhenitsyn, Alexander (17) Spiridonov, Captain (16) Stepan (6) Stolyarov (1) Stolyarov, Anton (8) Stolyarov, Tima (1) Tichon (23) Toskin, Vasya (6) Traube (21) Trofim (2) Valery (5) Valya (16) Venyamin, Metropolitan (23) Vera (5) Victor (15) Volodya (2) Y(12)